A tradition since 2010 and Neil Young said "Tonight's the night" ~ Holmes
I broke Thanksgiving eve tradition and Holmes was not going to let it slide. Instead of our usual pre-turkey revelry, I'd been invited to dinner and a big show, necessitating we reschedule our annual standing Wednesday date to post-holiday.
Let's just say he wouldn't commit to a replacement date, but I'm still working on him.
Instead, my fellow music lover and I hoofed it over to Julep, which turned out to be a destination for others show-bound, not just the one we were attending - the king and queen of hearts world tour featuring Mary J.Blige and Maxwell at the Coliseum - but also Joe Bonamassa at the Landmark.
Not a lot of overlap of those two audiences on a Venn diagram, if you think about it.
But everybody's gotta eat, so we wasted no time in getting to the business of ordering because our show began at the ungodly hour of 7:00 and I'd been instructed to skip lunch (easier because I hadn't gotten up until 11:45 after a late night).
A bottle of Sokol Blosser Rose got the evening started right, followed by Hongatonk oysters from Maryland, which came pre-dressed with blood orange mignonette, while the soup special - and it's most definitely suddenly soup season - of duck confit and black bean in a clear broth was a stellar marriage of rich and earthy.
For the main event, perfectly pan-seared scallops were gussied up (and made obscene) with Woodson Mill polenta, oyster mushrooms, drawn paprika butter and hunks of buttermilk bleu cheese, while the larger appetite went with rockfish, although I believe he may have been swayed by the bacon, rice and collards underneath.
We had just enough time for me to get my chocolate fix with a three-layer flourless torte to accompany the last of the Rose before joining the throngs at the Coliseum, a process that involves not only having your bag checked, but a full body wanding to check for the kinds of things nobody should bring to a show.
Granted, I don't think I've been to the Coliseum in a dozen or so years, but this amped-up security was new to me. In fact, it had been so long that I was seeing the Coliseum with fresh eyes and, except for the truly awful concession stands and over-priced beer vendors, it wasn't nearly as big or unpleasant as I recalled.
Or maybe that's just because we arrived moments before Mary J. Blige appeared behind a curtain and began singing long before we could see her. Explosions and a light show announced the moment we finally laid eyes on the queen of hearts.
I'm not going to act like I was a long-time fan, but the woman has been making music for nearly a quarter of a century, so she's pretty much woven into the musical fabric of our lifetime whether you were paying attention or not.
Unlike many people in the crowd, I couldn't sing along to all of her older songs word for word, but that didn't stop me from picking up on MJ's bold-faced message of all pain, all the time, augmented by multiple costume changes that showed MJ is still in fine shape, even if she's yet to meet a man worthy of her.
At one point, she began a pointed lecture directed at the men in the room about treating their woman like a queen and staying faithful, then switched over to the womenfolk for some consciousness raising, reminding us not to take crap from our men.
Pshaw. Clearly that message was intended for some of the younger women in attendance because those of us of an age long ago learned that lesson. I would go so far as to say that it's a woman's perogative to determine the boundaries of a friendship or a relationship, a fact not unnoticed (and often commented on) by the males in my own sphere.
The show was a major production, a well-oiled machine, no doubt intended to justify the expense of the tickets, with elaborately-curated video screens behind the stage as if the performer alone wasn't enough to keep the crowd entertained.
But for me, the real excitement began when Prince's "Kiss" ended on the speakers and the lithe and handsome Maxwell came out in sunglasses and a three piece suit (to me, looking for all the world like a 21st century Harry Belafonte and that's some high praise), singing the opening song, "All the Ways Love Can Feel" from his latest album and showing off his falsetto without delay.
Effortlessly and gracefully sliding down the ramps from the upper stage level to the catwalk level allowed him to be up close with his adoring fans, of which I'm a late-comer. Trying to catch up, I've had his latest album "blackSUMMERS'night" on constant rotation in my car for a while now.
But even for long-time fans, it would be tough to beat Maxwell's take on Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work," in which he did a duet with Bush's vocal in front of a screen honoring the important musical figures we lost this past year and concluding with a nod to the Black Lives Matter movement.
The song alone is magnificent, Maxwell's cover of it has always been a stunner and the live performance of it - he was on his knees at one point - well, it was enough to make the entire show a must-see.
He got lots of applause when he got political about the challenging times we're living in post-election, saying that we just need to get through the next four years until Michelle Obama can be elected President. Amen.
Hearing "Lake by the Ocean" live was pure pleasure, although I can't say I recognized all the older songs this suave man did, but I'm honest enough to admit that just hearing his soulful croon and remarkable falsetto is enough for me, familiar or not.
Add in thrusting hips, frequent agility moves like splits and drops to the knee, not to mention how he cuts the air with his hand to punctuate what his kick ass band is doing, and I, for one, am not going to look away.
But where he truly won my heart was when he spotted an over-zealous security guard and set out to right a wrong.
"Let them dance!" Maxwell called from the stage. "Let them dance! Let them dance, please!" Finally, the guard who'd been trying to stop people from moving in the most natural way to soul music looked up, realizing he'd all but stopped the show.
"I know you're just doing your job," Maxwell said in his direction. "But these people came here to enjoy the music and dance. Let them!"
Needless to say, the guard did. Other than Mary J. Blige - who likely doesn't obey anyone - who wouldn't listen when Maxwell tells you what to do? I know I would. We're talking about the King of Hearts here.
Not that I think Holmes will take that for an excuse if he's quoting me Neil Young. My, my, hey, hey, we'll see.
Showing posts with label julep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label julep. Show all posts
Friday, November 25, 2016
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Drunken and Psychotic
While Benny Goodman played overhead, I sipped black smoke and ate drunken figs. Just another Saturday night in R-town.
Arriving first to meet my trio of dates at the new Julep's, the hostess complimented my Hawaiian print dress as she led me to the table. I thanked her, explaining that I'd bought it in 1995. "That's the year I was born!" she enthused.
I told her I'd had a boyfriend who hadn't cared for it because it was so, well, Hawaiian looking. "I'm Hawaiian and I think it's pretty. My boyfriend doesn't like this dress,"she said of a flowered orange print. "Men!" she said, rolling her eyes.
She's flippin' 20, so what could she possibly know of men?
My threesome arrived, like me, eager to see the renovation of the former Montaldo's space. I had it on good authority that the black and white floor, the Corinthian columns and several frames (now windows, perhaps once mirrors?) were original. One of our group recalled shopping there.
The funny part was, our server wasn't sure if it had been Montaldo's or Shield's Shoes first. Hell, even I knew that much (Montaldo's).
My Black Smoke cocktail, decidedly pinkish-purple in color, united Mezcal, agave syrup, creme de cassis, muddled blackberries and egg whites, a departure - my northern roots, perhaps - from the traditionalists at the table sipping mint juleps from silver Jefferson cups.
The music wasn't all Big Band, although it was all old and familiar (see: Bill Withers) as we tucked into appetizers. My country ham, drunken bourbon figs, bleu cheese and adult arugula (as opposed to the ubiquitous baby arugula) spurred a discussion of laundry tubs, as in what an ideal place they are to soak a Smithfield ham...or wash a dog.
Seeking a bottle of wine to accompany our main courses, a server in a matching yellow watch and tie suddenly appeared to grant our wish. When our server arrived, my friend told him a little bird had already taken care of it. "A big bird named Al, I'll bet," he responded. A big bird named Al with a yellow Swatch actually.
I followed my loopy figs with a kale country salad with bacon, cucumber, cornbread croutons and buttermilk dressing, a hearty plate of greens but not quite as impressive as my dates' entrees of a massive crabcake (so large we all tasted it), black grouper and fava beans ("You can't throw a line in the water in Bermuda without catching grouper," the ex-pat shared) and karbanara (their appalling spelling, who knows why?) of ham, linguine, peas and kale.
Someday I would like to see a job created whose sole responsibility is to ensure that no restaurant's menu contains spelling, capitalization, punctuation or other word-related errors. Either that or give diners a red pen to make corrections.
Finished eating before the others, I could tell everyone was filling up by the glassy looks in their eyes, but two of us were intrigued enough by the dessert menu listing of "rich dense chocolate hominy and fresh whipped cream" to order it. The hominy was a negligible component and I'd have preferred the chocolate to have been darker, but it's always a pleasure to have a few bites of chocolate after a meal.
Because our table had been on the other side of the ultra-suede curtain, I'd had no idea how crowded the place had gotten since our arrival until we left. Outside on the sidewalk, Grace Street was positively lively with people walking about.
Not us. We had an 8:00 curtain at Richmond Triangle Players, where sculpted guys in swim trunks hung leis around our necks as we walked in. That was one way to get us in the mood for "Psycho Beach Party" (original title: "Gidget Goes Psychotic"). Onstage, other bathing suit-clad actors tossed a beach ball and danced to surf music.
RTP has found the perfect summertime diversion with a campy play that takes classic '60s beach movies and skewers them with Hitchcock-worthy psychological thrillers focused on young tomboy Chicklet (played by a guy, natch) who wants to learn to surf from the coolest surfer dude, Kanaka.
Only thing is, Chicklet has multiple personalities and one of them is a dominatrix. Fortunately, Kanaka is a willing submissive. She's planning to take over the world, first Malibu (oh, no, where will Barbie live?) and then Sacramento (that's as far as she's gotten with her plan for world domination, apparently).
Thwarting all the fun was Dan Cimo as Chicklet's mother, who resembled a prettier Joan Crawford but with just as inadequate mothering skills. Make that domestic skills, too. Her veal scaloppine exploded out of the pressure cooker and she picks bits out of her coiffure and eats them as she lectures her daughter.
I think we can all agree that one should never miss an opportunity to skewer Miss Crawford.
Of course it was hysterical, lambasting all those Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello movies, with lines such as, "You have the sex drive of a marshmallow and you're pushing 16!"
Horrors!
Strobe lights appeared whenever there was a fight scene, which took place in hilarious slow motion.
When the lights came up at intermission after a particularly lurid description of what two people do when they're alone, one friend joked that they wrote the script while another indicated that it was a long way from anything they'd seen before.
And isn't that why we love Richmond Triangle Players? Well, that and offering $10 tickets on a Saturday night, let's be honest.
I like to maintain my cheap date status whenever I can. Doesn't mean I'm cheap.
Arriving first to meet my trio of dates at the new Julep's, the hostess complimented my Hawaiian print dress as she led me to the table. I thanked her, explaining that I'd bought it in 1995. "That's the year I was born!" she enthused.
I told her I'd had a boyfriend who hadn't cared for it because it was so, well, Hawaiian looking. "I'm Hawaiian and I think it's pretty. My boyfriend doesn't like this dress,"she said of a flowered orange print. "Men!" she said, rolling her eyes.
She's flippin' 20, so what could she possibly know of men?
My threesome arrived, like me, eager to see the renovation of the former Montaldo's space. I had it on good authority that the black and white floor, the Corinthian columns and several frames (now windows, perhaps once mirrors?) were original. One of our group recalled shopping there.
The funny part was, our server wasn't sure if it had been Montaldo's or Shield's Shoes first. Hell, even I knew that much (Montaldo's).
My Black Smoke cocktail, decidedly pinkish-purple in color, united Mezcal, agave syrup, creme de cassis, muddled blackberries and egg whites, a departure - my northern roots, perhaps - from the traditionalists at the table sipping mint juleps from silver Jefferson cups.
The music wasn't all Big Band, although it was all old and familiar (see: Bill Withers) as we tucked into appetizers. My country ham, drunken bourbon figs, bleu cheese and adult arugula (as opposed to the ubiquitous baby arugula) spurred a discussion of laundry tubs, as in what an ideal place they are to soak a Smithfield ham...or wash a dog.
Seeking a bottle of wine to accompany our main courses, a server in a matching yellow watch and tie suddenly appeared to grant our wish. When our server arrived, my friend told him a little bird had already taken care of it. "A big bird named Al, I'll bet," he responded. A big bird named Al with a yellow Swatch actually.
I followed my loopy figs with a kale country salad with bacon, cucumber, cornbread croutons and buttermilk dressing, a hearty plate of greens but not quite as impressive as my dates' entrees of a massive crabcake (so large we all tasted it), black grouper and fava beans ("You can't throw a line in the water in Bermuda without catching grouper," the ex-pat shared) and karbanara (their appalling spelling, who knows why?) of ham, linguine, peas and kale.
Someday I would like to see a job created whose sole responsibility is to ensure that no restaurant's menu contains spelling, capitalization, punctuation or other word-related errors. Either that or give diners a red pen to make corrections.
Finished eating before the others, I could tell everyone was filling up by the glassy looks in their eyes, but two of us were intrigued enough by the dessert menu listing of "rich dense chocolate hominy and fresh whipped cream" to order it. The hominy was a negligible component and I'd have preferred the chocolate to have been darker, but it's always a pleasure to have a few bites of chocolate after a meal.
Because our table had been on the other side of the ultra-suede curtain, I'd had no idea how crowded the place had gotten since our arrival until we left. Outside on the sidewalk, Grace Street was positively lively with people walking about.
Not us. We had an 8:00 curtain at Richmond Triangle Players, where sculpted guys in swim trunks hung leis around our necks as we walked in. That was one way to get us in the mood for "Psycho Beach Party" (original title: "Gidget Goes Psychotic"). Onstage, other bathing suit-clad actors tossed a beach ball and danced to surf music.
RTP has found the perfect summertime diversion with a campy play that takes classic '60s beach movies and skewers them with Hitchcock-worthy psychological thrillers focused on young tomboy Chicklet (played by a guy, natch) who wants to learn to surf from the coolest surfer dude, Kanaka.
Only thing is, Chicklet has multiple personalities and one of them is a dominatrix. Fortunately, Kanaka is a willing submissive. She's planning to take over the world, first Malibu (oh, no, where will Barbie live?) and then Sacramento (that's as far as she's gotten with her plan for world domination, apparently).
Thwarting all the fun was Dan Cimo as Chicklet's mother, who resembled a prettier Joan Crawford but with just as inadequate mothering skills. Make that domestic skills, too. Her veal scaloppine exploded out of the pressure cooker and she picks bits out of her coiffure and eats them as she lectures her daughter.
I think we can all agree that one should never miss an opportunity to skewer Miss Crawford.
Of course it was hysterical, lambasting all those Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello movies, with lines such as, "You have the sex drive of a marshmallow and you're pushing 16!"
Horrors!
Strobe lights appeared whenever there was a fight scene, which took place in hilarious slow motion.
When the lights came up at intermission after a particularly lurid description of what two people do when they're alone, one friend joked that they wrote the script while another indicated that it was a long way from anything they'd seen before.
And isn't that why we love Richmond Triangle Players? Well, that and offering $10 tickets on a Saturday night, let's be honest.
I like to maintain my cheap date status whenever I can. Doesn't mean I'm cheap.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Awarding the Gold
Just when I think my love life is looking up, it gets trumped in spades.
Not that I think wooing is a competitive sport.
With plans to meet a girlfriend for music, I left for a solo dinner at the Roosevelt.
The Weaker Thans were blasting when I got there, alerting me to the fact that we weren't listening to bartender T's music.
Nope, it was Brandon ("Canada's finest!" he grinned when I asked about the source of the tunes), the artist behind one of my largest pieces of art, and he started by recommending Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend, perfect for barbecued chicken, and his current favorite.
Since I was the sole customer, my spicy steak tartare came out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, full of capers and with house-made potato chips and pickled cucumber slices on the side to balance out the richness.
I call that a really good start to the evening. The chef came out and we talked about the upcoming and ill-timed Beast Feast.
Then it was time for the wine to do its pairing job with smokey chicken wings with Alabama white sauce (white sauce with barbecue sauce and sinus-clearing horseradish) and the Roosevelt's own hot sauce.
I enjoyed every bit of the heat of the crispy wings (drumettes and middle joints) and before long had sticky fingers and a tongue looking for a cool-down.
My fingers were nicely taken care of when Brandon showed up with a hot, wet napkin spiraled into a coffee cup.
One of the staff walked by and whispered conspiratorially, "We're all dressing as "The Outsiders" for Halloween. Everyone wants to be a greaser except one girl who said she'd be a soc."
Well, who would want to be a social when they could be a greaser?
Back at the eating ranch, I'd saved the best (or at least the most decadent) for last.
Crispy fried pig's head was covered in a fried egg and arugula with New Orleans barbecued shrimp surrounding the head.
I doubt even a Social ever got served something so obscene.
The server walked by again, bringing the latest Halloween bulletin to me. "And we're going to be zombies, too!" she grinned. Zombie Outsiders?
"Yes!" she said manically. You crazy kids.
I had no more time to discuss greasers or Weaker Thans because I had to get to Globehopper to meet my friend for a show.
Of course, I immediately ran into someone I knew and was so busy chatting that when my friend arrived, she sailed right by me, never even noticing me.
When she did, I took what little time we had before music to check on what she'd been up to.
The look she gave me told me that there were several good stories there and not nearly enough time.
Singer-songwriter Clair Morgan went first and a musician friend had earlier filled me in on just how talented Clair was.
Even so, I was blown away with his literate and insightful songs of life and love.
Playing guitar and with a female back up singer, he held the coffee shop in his thrall as he played through his set.
There were several young children running amok at the show and one ran up and started twirling mid-song, resulting in Clair saying, "Sorry it isn't better dancing music."
A very tolerant attitude, I thought.
Favorite lyric: "Getting older each day and there's no one listening."
After Clair's set, I swung around and told my girlfriend to spill the beans. I could not have anticipated how many beans she had.
There was the charming date who'd taken her to dinner, the symphony and out for drinks, then shown up the next day to replace a long burnt-out light bulb on her front porch, which he just happened to have noticed.
Oh, yes, and he cleaned her front windows while he was there.
The next day, there was the lunch date who picked her up at work and took her for a picnic of what she said were the best sandwiches she'd had in some time.
Something about perfectly crusty baguettes and a thermos of good coffee that had her in raptures.
Then that night, she heard a knock on her door at 10:00 and there was Guy #3, a long-time friend, with a bouquet of flowers and professing his love and devotion for her right there on her stoop.
Good god, what pheromone does this woman have?
I don't see her for five days and she's had more action than you could shake a stick at.
As the Weaker Thans would say, it's a "Tournament of Hearts."
Our conversation was cut short when the Low Branches began, but they're always worth it.
Christina has such a beautiful voice and while her songs tend to be sad ("All our songs are depressing, but we brought our best and brightest!" she joked), Matt's guitar and Josh's bass make for some truly lovely music.
Time stood still when they did a cover of "Jolene."
Thanking the crowd for coming, Christina said, "It's so nice. There's a lot of people here we like and a lot we don't...know." The crowd laughed. "But we'll like you, too! I'm not sure when they're going to take the mic away from me."
Apologizing for a recent cold affecting her ability to hit some high notes on a song, they finished with a Turkish song sung so superbly it was hard to believe she'd been sick.
Singing in Turkish, he voice had far more energy than her usual sad songs, both a pleasure to hear and very striking.
And just like that, the show was over. I immediately informed my friend we were going out for a glass to finish our discussion.
Forgetting that it was restaurant week, we ended up at a very busy Julep's for wine while all around us people dined for $25.13 and the kitchen no doubt wanted to kill themselves.
And if not over restaurant week, surely over Beast Feast, at least from what I'm hearing.
Since it's Virginia Wine Month, I had my second Virginia wine of the evening, this one the Rosemont Lake Country Red, a fruit-forward and silky blend.
Over vino, I got all the details of her past few days, right down to who has a chance and who's already out of the running.
The Weaker Thans would call that part of her love life "The Reasons."
Honestly, you need a scorecard to keep track of the players. For her, not me, that is.
I can't decide if they'd call mine "A New Name for Everything" or "The Last Last One."
It all comes down to who's listening.
Not that I think wooing is a competitive sport.
With plans to meet a girlfriend for music, I left for a solo dinner at the Roosevelt.
The Weaker Thans were blasting when I got there, alerting me to the fact that we weren't listening to bartender T's music.
Nope, it was Brandon ("Canada's finest!" he grinned when I asked about the source of the tunes), the artist behind one of my largest pieces of art, and he started by recommending Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend, perfect for barbecued chicken, and his current favorite.
Since I was the sole customer, my spicy steak tartare came out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, full of capers and with house-made potato chips and pickled cucumber slices on the side to balance out the richness.
I call that a really good start to the evening. The chef came out and we talked about the upcoming and ill-timed Beast Feast.
Then it was time for the wine to do its pairing job with smokey chicken wings with Alabama white sauce (white sauce with barbecue sauce and sinus-clearing horseradish) and the Roosevelt's own hot sauce.
I enjoyed every bit of the heat of the crispy wings (drumettes and middle joints) and before long had sticky fingers and a tongue looking for a cool-down.
My fingers were nicely taken care of when Brandon showed up with a hot, wet napkin spiraled into a coffee cup.
One of the staff walked by and whispered conspiratorially, "We're all dressing as "The Outsiders" for Halloween. Everyone wants to be a greaser except one girl who said she'd be a soc."
Well, who would want to be a social when they could be a greaser?
Back at the eating ranch, I'd saved the best (or at least the most decadent) for last.
Crispy fried pig's head was covered in a fried egg and arugula with New Orleans barbecued shrimp surrounding the head.
I doubt even a Social ever got served something so obscene.
The server walked by again, bringing the latest Halloween bulletin to me. "And we're going to be zombies, too!" she grinned. Zombie Outsiders?
"Yes!" she said manically. You crazy kids.
I had no more time to discuss greasers or Weaker Thans because I had to get to Globehopper to meet my friend for a show.
Of course, I immediately ran into someone I knew and was so busy chatting that when my friend arrived, she sailed right by me, never even noticing me.
When she did, I took what little time we had before music to check on what she'd been up to.
The look she gave me told me that there were several good stories there and not nearly enough time.
Singer-songwriter Clair Morgan went first and a musician friend had earlier filled me in on just how talented Clair was.
Even so, I was blown away with his literate and insightful songs of life and love.
Playing guitar and with a female back up singer, he held the coffee shop in his thrall as he played through his set.
There were several young children running amok at the show and one ran up and started twirling mid-song, resulting in Clair saying, "Sorry it isn't better dancing music."
A very tolerant attitude, I thought.
Favorite lyric: "Getting older each day and there's no one listening."
After Clair's set, I swung around and told my girlfriend to spill the beans. I could not have anticipated how many beans she had.
There was the charming date who'd taken her to dinner, the symphony and out for drinks, then shown up the next day to replace a long burnt-out light bulb on her front porch, which he just happened to have noticed.
Oh, yes, and he cleaned her front windows while he was there.
The next day, there was the lunch date who picked her up at work and took her for a picnic of what she said were the best sandwiches she'd had in some time.
Something about perfectly crusty baguettes and a thermos of good coffee that had her in raptures.
Then that night, she heard a knock on her door at 10:00 and there was Guy #3, a long-time friend, with a bouquet of flowers and professing his love and devotion for her right there on her stoop.
Good god, what pheromone does this woman have?
I don't see her for five days and she's had more action than you could shake a stick at.
As the Weaker Thans would say, it's a "Tournament of Hearts."
Our conversation was cut short when the Low Branches began, but they're always worth it.
Christina has such a beautiful voice and while her songs tend to be sad ("All our songs are depressing, but we brought our best and brightest!" she joked), Matt's guitar and Josh's bass make for some truly lovely music.
Time stood still when they did a cover of "Jolene."
Thanking the crowd for coming, Christina said, "It's so nice. There's a lot of people here we like and a lot we don't...know." The crowd laughed. "But we'll like you, too! I'm not sure when they're going to take the mic away from me."
Apologizing for a recent cold affecting her ability to hit some high notes on a song, they finished with a Turkish song sung so superbly it was hard to believe she'd been sick.
Singing in Turkish, he voice had far more energy than her usual sad songs, both a pleasure to hear and very striking.
And just like that, the show was over. I immediately informed my friend we were going out for a glass to finish our discussion.
Forgetting that it was restaurant week, we ended up at a very busy Julep's for wine while all around us people dined for $25.13 and the kitchen no doubt wanted to kill themselves.
And if not over restaurant week, surely over Beast Feast, at least from what I'm hearing.
Since it's Virginia Wine Month, I had my second Virginia wine of the evening, this one the Rosemont Lake Country Red, a fruit-forward and silky blend.
Over vino, I got all the details of her past few days, right down to who has a chance and who's already out of the running.
The Weaker Thans would call that part of her love life "The Reasons."
Honestly, you need a scorecard to keep track of the players. For her, not me, that is.
I can't decide if they'd call mine "A New Name for Everything" or "The Last Last One."
It all comes down to who's listening.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Like What I Love
The message was clear.
Meet me tonight for dinner...TONIGHT...I say.
You'd think it had been a while since we'd been out together.
Oh, wait. It had.
Between a perpetually busy job, a move and massive house redecoration, he'd had no time to catch up with a friend since I don't know when.
All of a sudden, we were on for tonight.
Once we got together, his conversation focused on how a favorite restaurant had disappointed him the last three or four times he'd gone.
In fact, his beloved had stated for the record that they'd made their last visit there.
So naturally, the first place he suggests is that restaurant.
Fortunately, it's closed so we soldier on to Julep because, as he says, "I haven't been there in 100 years."
And I hadn't been there since Bobby's last night as mixologist there, back in 2011.
We chose the bar to eat, in the process meeting a visiting Chicagoan getting his southern chowhound on.
Despite it being a Monday night, Julep had a steady stream of people the whole time we were there, making for a lively vibe.
Friend chose a Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse because he only likes white wine and doesn't care for new world varietals.
It was a lovely choice, medium bodied and elegant, and set the tone for the first course.
I began with a crabcake appetizer, not on the menu, but I figured if you can make a crabcake entree, making an appetizer couldn't be that hard, while my companion got the crispy fried oysters.
Both dishes showed a deftness with seafood that no doubt serves them well with visitors from places liked Chicago.
We shared a salad of local baby red romaine lettuce with Parmesan curls, grilled garlic butter croutons, white anchovy and a Creole-Cesar dressing.
Truth be told, the curls were flat, but the flavor was good.
Our conversation was all over the place because it had been so long since we'd been out together.
The service at Julep is always so professional, if a tad old school with only male servers, but we had to laugh when the hostess came behind the bar.
As she was refilling our water glasses, my friend spoke to her and when she didn't hear, she came back with, "HUH?"
It was the kind of loud, honking "huh?" that has grated on the nerves of parents, teachers and anyone who'd ever heard it come out of the mouth of a clueless youth.
So we'll say the staid atmosphere was tempered by the honking of the hostess.
My friend is a beef lover so the grilled dry-aged New York strip called to him and with good reason.
The perfectly cooked piece of meat (one of his complaints at the place that had been disappointing him so much lately) came with horseradish mashed potatoes, grilled rapini, ham hock demi glace and whole grain mustard butter.
He was so impressed that he couldn't wait to bring his long-suffering mate in for that steak.
I went with the cassoulet of Sausagecraft lamb sausage, duck confit, pork belly, white beans and vegetables with an herb bread crumb topping.
It arrived in a ceramic bowl holding enough heat to warm the room, so I had to be patient before going in.
But it was worth it for the succulent bits of lamb, duck and pig, although I thought the crumb layer a bit dry.
In my book, a good bread crumb topping has as much butter as bread, but not everyone feels that way.
Meanwhile, my friend was telling me that he and his main squeeze are trying to plan a vacation where neither of them checks messages for a week.
Wow, I remember when people planned vacations where their goal was just to relax and have a good time.
Clearly, we are now setting the bar much lower.
On the other hand, I was just happy to hear that the two workaholics were attempting to get away.
It was during our discussion of all the club-hopping we'd both done in Washington in our twenties that our server inquired about dessert.
Nothing on the menu grabbed me, but my companion insisted that we needed the Bananas Foster served tableside for two.
Amazed that I'd never had Bananas Foster, he told me it had been all the rage back in the '70s.
I was game, so next thing we knew, our server brought over his mobile kitchen and was sauteing bananas in butter and brown sugar, adding spiced rum and pouring the flaming mixture over pound cake and vanilla ice cream.
All I could think of was how key it would have been to keep all that flaming away from the polyester clothing of the '70s.
Or were there tragic Bananas Foster incidents back in the day?
And while my favorite desserts are always of the chocolate variety, the bananas Foster was a fine, sweet finish to our meal.
We stayed a while, sipping more wine and talking about recent parties and new restaurants before I deposited him back and went on with my night.
Making a bee-line to the Camel for an evening of new bands, I arrived as Sea of Storms was starting their set.
I knew nothing at all about the band beforehand, but I was stopped in my tracks when I saw them.
The lead singer/guitarist was Brandon Peck.
I bought one of Brandon's prints back in 2008 before I ever knew him. It's the largest piece I own and still hangs front and center in my living room.
A couple of years later, I met him when he bartended at Ipanema and then served at The Roosevelt.
I've had many conversations with Brandon, but I'd never seen him in his music guise.
I was riveted.
You think you know someone and all of a sudden, he's part of a post-punk/hardcore trio, spitting out lyrics three feet in front of my face and it's so awesome I can't move.
Thanks, Sea of Storms, for the welcome into the night's activities.
During the break, I found lots of people I knew and the general buzz was how excited everyone was that the Camel is hosting more free shows lately.
For some of us, it was two in a row after Sunday night's Scolaro show.
I think we can all agree that more free shows allow the attendees to spend more on the bands' merch as well as adult beverages.
Headlining tonight was Hens, the new project by Josh Hryciak (formerly of Mermaid Skeletons) and David Shultz (...and the Skyline).
With no idea what to expect from them, I was thrilled when the foursome came out with guitars blazing like Band of Horses.
Josh is a stellar songwriter and we were treated to song after song from a band playing out for the first time.
"This is an awesome turnout for a first show," Josh beamed.
"We 're lucky hens," David observed drolly.
But I'd already run into any number of friends who'd said they were there to see what Josh's new project was.
The fans of Mermaid Skeletons are legion in this town
But even better, the band was more than just Josh (I'm a big fan of David's, too) and with three people trading off lead vocals, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that others, like David, are doing songwriting, too.
Josh announced a couple of personal songs, including, "Like What I Love," a concept as necessary to me as it must have been to him to write the song.
Stylistically, the set varied with one song as smooth and mellow as an old R&B groove, while a particular favorite was keyboard-based with few vocals, an almost post-rock dreamscape, and others were full on guitar and drum rocking.
But apparently, that's just how Hens roll.
As my photographer friend observed later, "Dang that was a good show."
I'd go even further.
Dang, that was a good meal. Dang, that was two good bands I needed to hear.
And only TONIGHT...I say.
It's so easy to like what I love.
Meet me tonight for dinner...TONIGHT...I say.
You'd think it had been a while since we'd been out together.
Oh, wait. It had.
Between a perpetually busy job, a move and massive house redecoration, he'd had no time to catch up with a friend since I don't know when.
All of a sudden, we were on for tonight.
Once we got together, his conversation focused on how a favorite restaurant had disappointed him the last three or four times he'd gone.
In fact, his beloved had stated for the record that they'd made their last visit there.
So naturally, the first place he suggests is that restaurant.
Fortunately, it's closed so we soldier on to Julep because, as he says, "I haven't been there in 100 years."
And I hadn't been there since Bobby's last night as mixologist there, back in 2011.
We chose the bar to eat, in the process meeting a visiting Chicagoan getting his southern chowhound on.
Despite it being a Monday night, Julep had a steady stream of people the whole time we were there, making for a lively vibe.
Friend chose a Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse because he only likes white wine and doesn't care for new world varietals.
It was a lovely choice, medium bodied and elegant, and set the tone for the first course.
I began with a crabcake appetizer, not on the menu, but I figured if you can make a crabcake entree, making an appetizer couldn't be that hard, while my companion got the crispy fried oysters.
Both dishes showed a deftness with seafood that no doubt serves them well with visitors from places liked Chicago.
We shared a salad of local baby red romaine lettuce with Parmesan curls, grilled garlic butter croutons, white anchovy and a Creole-Cesar dressing.
Truth be told, the curls were flat, but the flavor was good.
Our conversation was all over the place because it had been so long since we'd been out together.
The service at Julep is always so professional, if a tad old school with only male servers, but we had to laugh when the hostess came behind the bar.
As she was refilling our water glasses, my friend spoke to her and when she didn't hear, she came back with, "HUH?"
It was the kind of loud, honking "huh?" that has grated on the nerves of parents, teachers and anyone who'd ever heard it come out of the mouth of a clueless youth.
So we'll say the staid atmosphere was tempered by the honking of the hostess.
My friend is a beef lover so the grilled dry-aged New York strip called to him and with good reason.
The perfectly cooked piece of meat (one of his complaints at the place that had been disappointing him so much lately) came with horseradish mashed potatoes, grilled rapini, ham hock demi glace and whole grain mustard butter.
He was so impressed that he couldn't wait to bring his long-suffering mate in for that steak.
I went with the cassoulet of Sausagecraft lamb sausage, duck confit, pork belly, white beans and vegetables with an herb bread crumb topping.
It arrived in a ceramic bowl holding enough heat to warm the room, so I had to be patient before going in.
But it was worth it for the succulent bits of lamb, duck and pig, although I thought the crumb layer a bit dry.
In my book, a good bread crumb topping has as much butter as bread, but not everyone feels that way.
Meanwhile, my friend was telling me that he and his main squeeze are trying to plan a vacation where neither of them checks messages for a week.
Wow, I remember when people planned vacations where their goal was just to relax and have a good time.
Clearly, we are now setting the bar much lower.
On the other hand, I was just happy to hear that the two workaholics were attempting to get away.
It was during our discussion of all the club-hopping we'd both done in Washington in our twenties that our server inquired about dessert.
Nothing on the menu grabbed me, but my companion insisted that we needed the Bananas Foster served tableside for two.
Amazed that I'd never had Bananas Foster, he told me it had been all the rage back in the '70s.
I was game, so next thing we knew, our server brought over his mobile kitchen and was sauteing bananas in butter and brown sugar, adding spiced rum and pouring the flaming mixture over pound cake and vanilla ice cream.
All I could think of was how key it would have been to keep all that flaming away from the polyester clothing of the '70s.
Or were there tragic Bananas Foster incidents back in the day?
And while my favorite desserts are always of the chocolate variety, the bananas Foster was a fine, sweet finish to our meal.
We stayed a while, sipping more wine and talking about recent parties and new restaurants before I deposited him back and went on with my night.
Making a bee-line to the Camel for an evening of new bands, I arrived as Sea of Storms was starting their set.
I knew nothing at all about the band beforehand, but I was stopped in my tracks when I saw them.
The lead singer/guitarist was Brandon Peck.
I bought one of Brandon's prints back in 2008 before I ever knew him. It's the largest piece I own and still hangs front and center in my living room.
A couple of years later, I met him when he bartended at Ipanema and then served at The Roosevelt.
I've had many conversations with Brandon, but I'd never seen him in his music guise.
I was riveted.
You think you know someone and all of a sudden, he's part of a post-punk/hardcore trio, spitting out lyrics three feet in front of my face and it's so awesome I can't move.
Thanks, Sea of Storms, for the welcome into the night's activities.
During the break, I found lots of people I knew and the general buzz was how excited everyone was that the Camel is hosting more free shows lately.
For some of us, it was two in a row after Sunday night's Scolaro show.
I think we can all agree that more free shows allow the attendees to spend more on the bands' merch as well as adult beverages.
Headlining tonight was Hens, the new project by Josh Hryciak (formerly of Mermaid Skeletons) and David Shultz (...and the Skyline).
With no idea what to expect from them, I was thrilled when the foursome came out with guitars blazing like Band of Horses.
Josh is a stellar songwriter and we were treated to song after song from a band playing out for the first time.
"This is an awesome turnout for a first show," Josh beamed.
"We 're lucky hens," David observed drolly.
But I'd already run into any number of friends who'd said they were there to see what Josh's new project was.
The fans of Mermaid Skeletons are legion in this town
But even better, the band was more than just Josh (I'm a big fan of David's, too) and with three people trading off lead vocals, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that others, like David, are doing songwriting, too.
Josh announced a couple of personal songs, including, "Like What I Love," a concept as necessary to me as it must have been to him to write the song.
Stylistically, the set varied with one song as smooth and mellow as an old R&B groove, while a particular favorite was keyboard-based with few vocals, an almost post-rock dreamscape, and others were full on guitar and drum rocking.
But apparently, that's just how Hens roll.
As my photographer friend observed later, "Dang that was a good show."
I'd go even further.
Dang, that was a good meal. Dang, that was two good bands I needed to hear.
And only TONIGHT...I say.
It's so easy to like what I love.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Smelling the Broom
I've borrowed a husband at Julep's before but tonight I lent myself out to one.
As in a friend's wife was away and he wanted company at dinner so I said yes to being that company (after the first two people he asked said no).
When he asked where we should go, I suggested Julep because I'd met the new chef a while back and then run into him twice in the past two weeks.
"You need to come in," he'd say sincerely, assuring me I wouldn't be sorry.
And since it's Virginia Wine Month and Julep has an extensive wine list, I knew we could count on that even if the food was still a tad lackluster.
It was anything but.
I began with Barboursville Rose while we negotiated over the menu, eventually settling on crispy Saltine oysters with Tasso ham remoulade.
It's so nice to be back in the "R" months.
Goodness but they were delicious with the Saltines providing the salt and crunch to contrast with the succulent oysters inside.
With them we shared a half bottle of the Thibaud Jannison Sparkling, continuingour my devotion to the Old Dominion's wines.
Although my friend enjoyed it, he'd have never chosen it, so I know it was my enthusiasm that caused him to cave.
That and, as he pointed out, even a grilled cheese tastes better with bubbles.
Julep was a zoo with not an open table for the first three and a half hours we were there.
Looking at the menu, the signature shrimp and grits hadn't gone anywhere but it was the low country bouillabaisse that caught our eye.
Crawfish, mussels, fish and big chunks of Tasso ham floated in a dense broth with fingerling potatoes, sweet corn and grilled baguette.
The sop-worthy broth had the taste of a long simmered stock with herbs and each component of the seafood was perfectly cooked.
To accompany such a savory soup meal, we chose Chateau Petit Moulin Blanc, a white Bordeaux listed as having aromas of broom and acacia flowers.
You have to know that I could not pass up a chance to have a broom nose, nor could my friend when I pointed it out.
And while I can tell you that it was complex and well balanced with a long finish, the broom escaped me.
I'm a wine novice, you know. Had it been an aroma of Swiffer, I'd have gotten it right away.
While my friend indulged his cigarette habit, I learned about Johnnie Walker Blue Label from a nearby barsitter ("ridiculously over-priced and I won't drink it till I'm ready to die") and, from the manager, about men needing to reach 40 to have a clue ("I thought I was together but I was still a mess at 35 and most men are").
When Chef Randy finally came out for water and saw me, I raved about the food. "Told you, told you," he said with a sly smile. Yes, he had.
It's only cocky if you can't back it up.
Dessert was a bourbon chocolate tart which had more crust than we needed, but did a good job providing the period at the end of our meal sentence.
My friend was done by that point, so I stuck a fork in him and made my way to the Camel for the Ten Buck Tour while he headed home to bed.
I walked in just as Joshua James was starting his set and I was glad not to have missed him because I've been a fan ever since a friend gave me a mix tape containing both "Coal War" and the heartbreaking "FM Radio" about the death of his father.
He's got such an intimate, haunting voice and the Camel was the ideal place to watch him perform since the crowd was nowhere near what it should have been.
He had a guitarist and drummer with him to flesh out the songs of his Nebraska childhood and the disappointments since then.
He closed by moving off the stage to the floor, bringing a cymbal and opening a suitcase with bells which he spread out on the floor in front of him.
Seeing Joshua James playing bells and singing from the floor may be one of the all-time highlights of my many Camel shows.
HoneyHoney was co-headlining with JJ and I knew very little about them but had a good feeling.
The usual duo was a four-piece tonight, except for two songs they did as a duo ("Back to our roots"), and lead singer Suzanne played mostly banjo and occasional violin while guitarist Ben shared vocals.
"We've been here a while and we're feeling pretty feisty," Ben said, "so if you don't mind,we're going to play hard and fast for a while."
Their music was a melange of folk, alt-country, maybe a little honky-tonk and rock. There was even some movie-sounding element to it all.
Suzanne's voice was big enough to pull it all off and was beautifully served when Ben sang along, like when they covered Hank Williams' "Lost Highway."
Favorite line: "Don't know how to hold back what I shouldn't say."
By the time they got to their last song, they were rocking hard and the crowd was totally into them.
As one of the servers, a musician herself, said to me, "These guys are absolutely awesome."
I agreed. It was a ten-buck ticket show to be remembered for some time to come.
Too bad for the borrowed husband who missed it.
As in a friend's wife was away and he wanted company at dinner so I said yes to being that company (after the first two people he asked said no).
When he asked where we should go, I suggested Julep because I'd met the new chef a while back and then run into him twice in the past two weeks.
"You need to come in," he'd say sincerely, assuring me I wouldn't be sorry.
And since it's Virginia Wine Month and Julep has an extensive wine list, I knew we could count on that even if the food was still a tad lackluster.
It was anything but.
I began with Barboursville Rose while we negotiated over the menu, eventually settling on crispy Saltine oysters with Tasso ham remoulade.
It's so nice to be back in the "R" months.
Goodness but they were delicious with the Saltines providing the salt and crunch to contrast with the succulent oysters inside.
With them we shared a half bottle of the Thibaud Jannison Sparkling, continuing
Although my friend enjoyed it, he'd have never chosen it, so I know it was my enthusiasm that caused him to cave.
That and, as he pointed out, even a grilled cheese tastes better with bubbles.
Julep was a zoo with not an open table for the first three and a half hours we were there.
Looking at the menu, the signature shrimp and grits hadn't gone anywhere but it was the low country bouillabaisse that caught our eye.
Crawfish, mussels, fish and big chunks of Tasso ham floated in a dense broth with fingerling potatoes, sweet corn and grilled baguette.
The sop-worthy broth had the taste of a long simmered stock with herbs and each component of the seafood was perfectly cooked.
To accompany such a savory soup meal, we chose Chateau Petit Moulin Blanc, a white Bordeaux listed as having aromas of broom and acacia flowers.
You have to know that I could not pass up a chance to have a broom nose, nor could my friend when I pointed it out.
And while I can tell you that it was complex and well balanced with a long finish, the broom escaped me.
I'm a wine novice, you know. Had it been an aroma of Swiffer, I'd have gotten it right away.
While my friend indulged his cigarette habit, I learned about Johnnie Walker Blue Label from a nearby barsitter ("ridiculously over-priced and I won't drink it till I'm ready to die") and, from the manager, about men needing to reach 40 to have a clue ("I thought I was together but I was still a mess at 35 and most men are").
When Chef Randy finally came out for water and saw me, I raved about the food. "Told you, told you," he said with a sly smile. Yes, he had.
It's only cocky if you can't back it up.
Dessert was a bourbon chocolate tart which had more crust than we needed, but did a good job providing the period at the end of our meal sentence.
My friend was done by that point, so I stuck a fork in him and made my way to the Camel for the Ten Buck Tour while he headed home to bed.
I walked in just as Joshua James was starting his set and I was glad not to have missed him because I've been a fan ever since a friend gave me a mix tape containing both "Coal War" and the heartbreaking "FM Radio" about the death of his father.
He's got such an intimate, haunting voice and the Camel was the ideal place to watch him perform since the crowd was nowhere near what it should have been.
He had a guitarist and drummer with him to flesh out the songs of his Nebraska childhood and the disappointments since then.
He closed by moving off the stage to the floor, bringing a cymbal and opening a suitcase with bells which he spread out on the floor in front of him.
Seeing Joshua James playing bells and singing from the floor may be one of the all-time highlights of my many Camel shows.
HoneyHoney was co-headlining with JJ and I knew very little about them but had a good feeling.
The usual duo was a four-piece tonight, except for two songs they did as a duo ("Back to our roots"), and lead singer Suzanne played mostly banjo and occasional violin while guitarist Ben shared vocals.
"We've been here a while and we're feeling pretty feisty," Ben said, "so if you don't mind,we're going to play hard and fast for a while."
Their music was a melange of folk, alt-country, maybe a little honky-tonk and rock. There was even some movie-sounding element to it all.
Suzanne's voice was big enough to pull it all off and was beautifully served when Ben sang along, like when they covered Hank Williams' "Lost Highway."
Favorite line: "Don't know how to hold back what I shouldn't say."
By the time they got to their last song, they were rocking hard and the crowd was totally into them.
As one of the servers, a musician herself, said to me, "These guys are absolutely awesome."
I agreed. It was a ten-buck ticket show to be remembered for some time to come.
Too bad for the borrowed husband who missed it.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Bottoming Out after Saturday in the Slip
I don't wait for engraved invitations anymore. I ask. And sometimes I get text-like responses.
So where have u been recently? I was thinking a bit later in the evening. 8 or 830 ish. What say? U going to some show later?
This quasi-invitation came from half of one of my favorite couples when I suggested a Saturday night couple date.
We established that I had no music plans for the evening (I know, a rarity on a weekend night) and I listed out my recent destinations. Result: Bistro Bobette at 815.
Crossing Cary Street to get to Bobette, a cab driver called out to me, "Hey, you in the black dress, you got a nice butt." Thus I was welcomed to Shockoe Slip.
I was greeted with hugs and kisses and Mas de la Dame Rose was offered before I could ask for it; my friends shortly arrived.
It was a good foodie night at Bobette's bar, with a nearby trio of guys (including the Welshman still hoping for lip prints on his shirttail) eating even more than the three of us did. We don't often see that.
Every time they liked something, they ordered another dish of it. Ah, so these were smart men.
I was eager to hear about my friends' recent jaunt to DC; they'd done eleven restaurants in 2 1/2 days. Even I was impressed.
But tales of food can't match the real thing, so we wasted no time in availing ourselves of two of tonight's specials.
The rabbit pate with hazelnuts had a subtly rich flavor enhanced by the accompanying lentils. The lamb heart was rich, rare and as easy to cut as butter. I'd eat it anyway, but I'm hoping that eating heart improves one's love life.
After such rich starters, we naturally opted for more of the same, choosing a special of spicy rack of lamb and the mixed grill of quail, beef and bacon-wrapped pork.
The seven lamb lollipops were done in a spicy jus boasting coriander for flavor and crunch; sauteed pattypan squash and tomatoes accompanied it.
The chef himself doesn't usually care for lamb, but loves this locally grown lamb for its young, white meat. I could see why.
As for the mixed grill, how can you go wrong with fowl, cow and pig on one plate? The quail especially was melt-in-your mouth succulent.
Midway through dinner, a new couple joined us at the bar . In an odd coincidence, the female half of that couple, like the female of the couple I was with, was Russian.
They hit it off like a house on fire, alternating between Russian and English as they discussed god-knows what animatedly.
It was pretty cute to see, like two stray dogs discovering that they liked to play together.
They paused only when the lavender ice cream came out with its distinctive aroma and high butterfat.
I admit I had one sachet moment, but the flavor was so beautiful that I, like the others, was quickly won over.
We saw a loopy woman led out by her husband after she fell asleep in her chair. No one at her table seemed to find anything unusual about her post-dinner snooze while they chatted, but it seemed very odd to us.
As the last customers in the place, but not yet out of conversation,we decided to move the party six blocks east to Mint.
Of course, Saturday night parking in the Bottom is problematic at best and the omnipresent cops with their cars blocking half the intersections don't make it any easier.
We arrived just as the last diners were leaving, so Julep became Mint right before our eyes.
Shades were lowered and the music went from restaurant-stuffy to very cool. I heard a band I loved, the Budos Band, a ten-piece on Daptone records which says a lot, doing instrumental soul music.
One of the servers took note of it and came over and said, "This sounds like music from a '70s King Fu movie."
He then proceeded to do bad lip synched dialog to simulate such a movie for our amusement. But the music reference was apt, I'd have to say. And I want more.
And then the Russian and her boyfriend showed up and it was a full-on party.
Mixologist Bobby told me about his ever-evolving drink list and then acknowledged the inevitable.
"You want a Don Julio?" he asked with a touch of resignation in his voice. I just nodded.
But when he brought it to me, it was more than just tequila and a slow-melting cube.
"I know you're a purist, so I only put the ground mustard seed on part of the rim," he said with a smile.
He'd also slipped in a lime twist, no doubt to make himself feel better about having to pour such a boring drink. And as it turned out, the mustard seed was a nice touch.
Once I began sipping, I heard about one of his new creations, a tequila and absinthe drink with an avocado yogurt, which sounded so wonderful that I had to taste it.
Okay, so I might consider a cocktail if it contained that many things I love.
For entertainment value, Bobby told us about having run over a passed-out guy on the 14th Street bridge late last night.
It wasn't so bad; Bobby was on his bike and only ran over the guy's foot and the guy never even stirred.
Of course, it scared Bobby to death, though, so he called for non-emergency help and an ambulance was dispatched to help drunk guy get off the bridge.
If not for Bobby, he'd have probably slept it off on the sidewalk till daybreak, woken up and strolled home feeling much better.
What lesson can we learn here?
If not for going out all the time, I'd never get to hear such great stories. Or an evening of Russian conversation.
I wouldn't get to try mustard seed with tequila. Or find out that I might have the potential to be a cocktail drinker.
And then there was the cabbie commentary on my backside. I just can't get that kind of thing at home.
At least not yet. I remain eternally optimistic.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
I Came to See You
The funny part is, I originally planned to have a two-hour evening. No, seriously, I was shooting for a simple little Saturday night listening to friends play folk music and then home to bed. 10:30 to 12:30 and then out. Really.
And then a friend called out of the blue and suggested meeting for a drink at Julep and although I'd just been there Thursday night, I had been eating, not drinking, despite Bobby's attentive offers to pour me a variety of tequilas, so I said yes.
Tonight I gave him the opportunity to pour me Corazon and he graciously made me the first customer to use the new metal spoon-straws he'd brought back from his NYC trip last week. "You don't really need it with tequila on ice," he said, smiling, but it was still a nice gesture to make me the inaugural user.
The bar was packed, so we were standing near the end behind the hostess stand. At one point, one of my favorite servers, the handsome Kent, came over with a startled look on his face.
"You're like a Ninja," he said. "You come in here so stealthily I never even realize you're here and then, surprise, there you are." Yea, that's me, the stealthy type. I think more likely my lack of height hides me among the tall masses.
After a couple of hours (the original targeted length of my entire evening) about pasties, bar ambiance and pot-stirrers, I left for Balliceaux. A new friend had suggested meeting for music tonight, but didn't know of anything happening. Since I already had plans to go to a show, we decided to make it a twosome.
Austin greeted me at the front bar, so I decided to linger there a while there sipping Herradura Anejo and waiting for my evening's company, whom I wasn't even sure would recognize me since we hadn't seen each other since our original meeting nearly two months ago.
I told Austin about the dueling soloists show I'd seen last night because two of the guys at the show were mutual friends, including the drummer who'd lost me with his reference to pocket rhythm drumming.
Reassuringly, Austin gave me the same "huh?" look I'd given the drummer when he mentioned it. I felt better knowing I wasn't the only one confused by obscure drumming terminology.
As the dining crowd began to leave, the pretty people started arriving, so I knew I had to make my way to the back bar and establish territory.
My friend was due to arrive shortly and I wanted to have a place where we could actually see the show. I found that spot at the stool-less bar, where the most popular request from the youngest of the females was for Stella, a beer Balliceaux doesn't even carry (I like to think just to challenge them).
I'd come for the show with Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird and the Go Rounds, a Brooklyn band.
Unfortunately for the bands (and me) 90% of the crowd had come to get drunk and shout. It was a shame for my companion, who had never heard JV & TSB before because the crowd roar drowned out the accordion almost completely
On the other hand, he got to hear Antonia's vox saw (turning to me, he said, "For a minute, I thought someone was playing saw!"), a real treat for anyone who's never heard it. I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd seen a band earlier this week that had two saw players. Two!
The Go Rounds were a duo playing earnest folk music and they had just as difficult a time making themselves heard over the inane conversations going on in the crowd. I can say that because I eavesdropped on enough to know that nothing was really being said.
During the break, we got to talking about classic country music after I told him my only real musical prejudice is contemporary country. A friend had recently played several vintage country records for me and I loved both the heartfelt sincerity of the lyrics and unique delivery.
While waiting in the loo line, I chatted up the guy in line behind me after he asked if I had waited as long as he had to finally get in line (I had). Funny the things people use to strike up conversations.
A few well-placed questions and I discovered that his current music passion is 80s Italian disco and that we both shared an affinity for Joy Division. Now I feel the need to explore 80s Italian disco just to know.
After the show, it was only 12:30, so my companion asked if I wanted to do some more talking (clearly we're new to each other if he has to ask me if I want more conversation) and get a bite to eat.
Given the time, our choices were limited, but Joe's Inn wasn't far and I hadn't been in since the "cool side" had been made into the smoking side (as I'd been told by more than one friend lately), so I was game.
The non-smoking side was empty and closed for the evening, so we took a booth amongst the cool kids, the only seats available actually, on the other side.
Standing next to our booth were a guy in bright red plaid pants and another guy in a shocking blue flower-print shirt. Despite my electric-blue tank top peeking out from under my dress, clearly we weren't nearly colorful enough for this crowd.
Deciding on what to eat was easily accomplished by him picking two things and me picking from his choices. That resulted in a Greek salad followed by spaghetti a la Greek with marinara, something I would have never ordered on my own, which made it a good choice for me.
As we worked our way through the mound of pasta the size of my head, we played the question and answer game, meaning we barely finished before they closed at 2:00.
As our ancient waitress informed us, "We've turned the coffee pots off." We assumed that meant that they were ready to lock the doors next.
End result: my planned simple little two-hour evening morphed into something like a simple seven instead. No complaints here.
Simple is in the eye of the beholder.
And then a friend called out of the blue and suggested meeting for a drink at Julep and although I'd just been there Thursday night, I had been eating, not drinking, despite Bobby's attentive offers to pour me a variety of tequilas, so I said yes.
Tonight I gave him the opportunity to pour me Corazon and he graciously made me the first customer to use the new metal spoon-straws he'd brought back from his NYC trip last week. "You don't really need it with tequila on ice," he said, smiling, but it was still a nice gesture to make me the inaugural user.
The bar was packed, so we were standing near the end behind the hostess stand. At one point, one of my favorite servers, the handsome Kent, came over with a startled look on his face.
"You're like a Ninja," he said. "You come in here so stealthily I never even realize you're here and then, surprise, there you are." Yea, that's me, the stealthy type. I think more likely my lack of height hides me among the tall masses.
After a couple of hours (the original targeted length of my entire evening) about pasties, bar ambiance and pot-stirrers, I left for Balliceaux. A new friend had suggested meeting for music tonight, but didn't know of anything happening. Since I already had plans to go to a show, we decided to make it a twosome.
Austin greeted me at the front bar, so I decided to linger there a while there sipping Herradura Anejo and waiting for my evening's company, whom I wasn't even sure would recognize me since we hadn't seen each other since our original meeting nearly two months ago.
I told Austin about the dueling soloists show I'd seen last night because two of the guys at the show were mutual friends, including the drummer who'd lost me with his reference to pocket rhythm drumming.
Reassuringly, Austin gave me the same "huh?" look I'd given the drummer when he mentioned it. I felt better knowing I wasn't the only one confused by obscure drumming terminology.
As the dining crowd began to leave, the pretty people started arriving, so I knew I had to make my way to the back bar and establish territory.
My friend was due to arrive shortly and I wanted to have a place where we could actually see the show. I found that spot at the stool-less bar, where the most popular request from the youngest of the females was for Stella, a beer Balliceaux doesn't even carry (I like to think just to challenge them).
I'd come for the show with Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird and the Go Rounds, a Brooklyn band.
Unfortunately for the bands (and me) 90% of the crowd had come to get drunk and shout. It was a shame for my companion, who had never heard JV & TSB before because the crowd roar drowned out the accordion almost completely
On the other hand, he got to hear Antonia's vox saw (turning to me, he said, "For a minute, I thought someone was playing saw!"), a real treat for anyone who's never heard it. I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd seen a band earlier this week that had two saw players. Two!
The Go Rounds were a duo playing earnest folk music and they had just as difficult a time making themselves heard over the inane conversations going on in the crowd. I can say that because I eavesdropped on enough to know that nothing was really being said.
During the break, we got to talking about classic country music after I told him my only real musical prejudice is contemporary country. A friend had recently played several vintage country records for me and I loved both the heartfelt sincerity of the lyrics and unique delivery.
While waiting in the loo line, I chatted up the guy in line behind me after he asked if I had waited as long as he had to finally get in line (I had). Funny the things people use to strike up conversations.
A few well-placed questions and I discovered that his current music passion is 80s Italian disco and that we both shared an affinity for Joy Division. Now I feel the need to explore 80s Italian disco just to know.
After the show, it was only 12:30, so my companion asked if I wanted to do some more talking (clearly we're new to each other if he has to ask me if I want more conversation) and get a bite to eat.
Given the time, our choices were limited, but Joe's Inn wasn't far and I hadn't been in since the "cool side" had been made into the smoking side (as I'd been told by more than one friend lately), so I was game.
The non-smoking side was empty and closed for the evening, so we took a booth amongst the cool kids, the only seats available actually, on the other side.
Standing next to our booth were a guy in bright red plaid pants and another guy in a shocking blue flower-print shirt. Despite my electric-blue tank top peeking out from under my dress, clearly we weren't nearly colorful enough for this crowd.
Deciding on what to eat was easily accomplished by him picking two things and me picking from his choices. That resulted in a Greek salad followed by spaghetti a la Greek with marinara, something I would have never ordered on my own, which made it a good choice for me.
As we worked our way through the mound of pasta the size of my head, we played the question and answer game, meaning we barely finished before they closed at 2:00.
As our ancient waitress informed us, "We've turned the coffee pots off." We assumed that meant that they were ready to lock the doors next.
End result: my planned simple little two-hour evening morphed into something like a simple seven instead. No complaints here.
Simple is in the eye of the beholder.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Hot Dogging at Bistro Bobette
As a DC native, I will never think of National Airport as Reagan Airport. For my friend, it's Bombay that will never be Mumbai to him. And both of us are having a tough time making the transition from Bouchon to Bistro Bobette.
But we're trying and tonight's cocktail party for Bobette's regulars was what brought up the subject of name changes. He asked if I was going to Bouchon; I said yes, I was going to BB and that's how the whole thing unfolded. Change is tough.
Not so the party, a delightful mix of customers who frequent the space on Cary Street with the new name. When I got there, I was immediately given wine and bartender Olivier introduced me to the man standing next to me, resulting in a most unexpected exchange.
I asked what he did (artist) and he asked what I did (write). Without a moment's pause, he said, "You write the I Could Go On and On blog." Color me shocking pink because how in the world had he figured that out? He said all it took was my name and occupation.
Wow. I was wildly flattered that he reads my blog, even more so when he said he'd wondered if the blog wasn't a compendium of several people's activities since the "writer" was out every night. I assured him it was just me living this rather odd little life.
If that had been the extent of our conversation, it would have been memorable, but he turned out to be a really interesting guy. He and his wife had moved to RVA from NYC because they'd fallen in love with our fair city (as opposed to all the people who leave RVA for NYC, only to inevitably return).
I had even seen his show at Ghostprint Gallery last fall; I remember being impressed enough that I would have bought a painting if not for my writer's budget. I asked him about where he eats here, his thoughts on VMFA and what he missed about the big city (pizza mostly).
Together we sampled the array of taste delights being passed around. Hands down, the hot dogs stole my heart; Chef Francis has Sausagecraft make them from his personal recipe.
When the mound of toothpicks from my frankfurter feast became embarrassingly large, I finally asked Olivier to remove the evidence. Actually, I had to do that twice...or thrice, I don't remember. Hopefully, no one was keeping track.
Also being passed were cured salmon on house made rye crisps, puff pastry with three cheeses and herbs, and liver mousse crostini. It was a nice little cocktail party spread.
The crowd was a lively one; lots of accents, several artists, a wine master-to-be and a good assortment of neighbors made for an eclectic mix of people to talk to. My couple date finally showed and we formed a corner group, taking on any and all comers in conversation.
When the official party wound down, my couple date and I moved our unofficial one to Juelp. I arrived first to a nearly full bar and sat down next to an accommodating guy who offered to make room for me and my soon-to-arrive friends.
I made a crack about the cornbread crumbs he'd left on the bar in front of me and he sheepishly admitted to having just eaten two of those sweet Southern muffins.
"And I'd already had two appetizers and soup!" he bragged. My friends had just come in when a rack of lamb was deposited in front of the guy. Turning to my friends, I amazed them by sharing what he'd already consumed.
To all our astonishment, his plate was gone within five minutes. Man versus food, right there at Julep. Man won.
We couldn't compete with an eater like that, so we got a variety to share. Roasted Blue Point Oysters with spicy Tasso ham and basil remoulade. Shrimp and grits with white Cheddar and grilled Andouille sausage.
A cheese plate with house made pimento cheese, a triple cream bleu, and two Caromonts. Pan-seared foie gras with Granny Smith apple-cranberry chutney, rice paper crisps and sherry vinegar beef jus.
Just a little something to nibble on. The oysters ruled, the shrimp and grits are reliably good at Julep, the crisps with the cheese so buttery they flaked apart and the foie gras incredibly rich after having started with the others.
Mixologist Bobby whipped up a tasty cocktail using his new Cream de Violette. I told him about the unusual Maker's Mark drink (with a splash of Bordeaux) that I'd tasted at Amuse last week.
Not only did he immediately recognize it (my friend had just said he'd never heard of such a thing and he's a cocktail geek), but he said it's quite the trendy thing in NYC these days (NY Sidecar, should you care). And he was there last weekend doing alcoholic investigation, so he should know.
A long discussion of NYC bars (Employees Only, not to be missed), food (bone marrow poppers; be still my heart) and trends (a gypsy in the vestibule) followed because of Bobby's recent fact-finding excursion and our interest in hearing the details.
But eventually as the night (and drinks) wore on, the topic became affairs of the heart, mostly those of Bobby and his friends.
Forgotten birthdays, crossed signals, mad chemistry and burning bridges occupied the last couple hours of the evening. The wise one of the group offered the older male perspective on pursuit and retreat (and hated being called the older one) to the younger one.
The other XX-chromosomed one and I saw his girl troubles as just that: the difficulties of dealing with an immature female who hasn't a clue who she is or what she wants.
Easy for us to say from the vantage point of a few years. Woman, girl: not interchangeable terms.
Except maybe on bathroom doors and even then, I've got no compunction whatsoever about using the men's room. I did so tonight at Bouchon and got complimented ("Damn, you have beautiful legs!") on the way out.
Excuse me, at Bistro Bobette. Change is tough.
But we're trying and tonight's cocktail party for Bobette's regulars was what brought up the subject of name changes. He asked if I was going to Bouchon; I said yes, I was going to BB and that's how the whole thing unfolded. Change is tough.
Not so the party, a delightful mix of customers who frequent the space on Cary Street with the new name. When I got there, I was immediately given wine and bartender Olivier introduced me to the man standing next to me, resulting in a most unexpected exchange.
I asked what he did (artist) and he asked what I did (write). Without a moment's pause, he said, "You write the I Could Go On and On blog." Color me shocking pink because how in the world had he figured that out? He said all it took was my name and occupation.
Wow. I was wildly flattered that he reads my blog, even more so when he said he'd wondered if the blog wasn't a compendium of several people's activities since the "writer" was out every night. I assured him it was just me living this rather odd little life.
If that had been the extent of our conversation, it would have been memorable, but he turned out to be a really interesting guy. He and his wife had moved to RVA from NYC because they'd fallen in love with our fair city (as opposed to all the people who leave RVA for NYC, only to inevitably return).
I had even seen his show at Ghostprint Gallery last fall; I remember being impressed enough that I would have bought a painting if not for my writer's budget. I asked him about where he eats here, his thoughts on VMFA and what he missed about the big city (pizza mostly).
Together we sampled the array of taste delights being passed around. Hands down, the hot dogs stole my heart; Chef Francis has Sausagecraft make them from his personal recipe.
When the mound of toothpicks from my frankfurter feast became embarrassingly large, I finally asked Olivier to remove the evidence. Actually, I had to do that twice...or thrice, I don't remember. Hopefully, no one was keeping track.
Also being passed were cured salmon on house made rye crisps, puff pastry with three cheeses and herbs, and liver mousse crostini. It was a nice little cocktail party spread.
The crowd was a lively one; lots of accents, several artists, a wine master-to-be and a good assortment of neighbors made for an eclectic mix of people to talk to. My couple date finally showed and we formed a corner group, taking on any and all comers in conversation.
When the official party wound down, my couple date and I moved our unofficial one to Juelp. I arrived first to a nearly full bar and sat down next to an accommodating guy who offered to make room for me and my soon-to-arrive friends.
I made a crack about the cornbread crumbs he'd left on the bar in front of me and he sheepishly admitted to having just eaten two of those sweet Southern muffins.
"And I'd already had two appetizers and soup!" he bragged. My friends had just come in when a rack of lamb was deposited in front of the guy. Turning to my friends, I amazed them by sharing what he'd already consumed.
To all our astonishment, his plate was gone within five minutes. Man versus food, right there at Julep. Man won.
We couldn't compete with an eater like that, so we got a variety to share. Roasted Blue Point Oysters with spicy Tasso ham and basil remoulade. Shrimp and grits with white Cheddar and grilled Andouille sausage.
A cheese plate with house made pimento cheese, a triple cream bleu, and two Caromonts. Pan-seared foie gras with Granny Smith apple-cranberry chutney, rice paper crisps and sherry vinegar beef jus.
Just a little something to nibble on. The oysters ruled, the shrimp and grits are reliably good at Julep, the crisps with the cheese so buttery they flaked apart and the foie gras incredibly rich after having started with the others.
Mixologist Bobby whipped up a tasty cocktail using his new Cream de Violette. I told him about the unusual Maker's Mark drink (with a splash of Bordeaux) that I'd tasted at Amuse last week.
Not only did he immediately recognize it (my friend had just said he'd never heard of such a thing and he's a cocktail geek), but he said it's quite the trendy thing in NYC these days (NY Sidecar, should you care). And he was there last weekend doing alcoholic investigation, so he should know.
A long discussion of NYC bars (Employees Only, not to be missed), food (bone marrow poppers; be still my heart) and trends (a gypsy in the vestibule) followed because of Bobby's recent fact-finding excursion and our interest in hearing the details.
But eventually as the night (and drinks) wore on, the topic became affairs of the heart, mostly those of Bobby and his friends.
Forgotten birthdays, crossed signals, mad chemistry and burning bridges occupied the last couple hours of the evening. The wise one of the group offered the older male perspective on pursuit and retreat (and hated being called the older one) to the younger one.
The other XX-chromosomed one and I saw his girl troubles as just that: the difficulties of dealing with an immature female who hasn't a clue who she is or what she wants.
Easy for us to say from the vantage point of a few years. Woman, girl: not interchangeable terms.
Except maybe on bathroom doors and even then, I've got no compunction whatsoever about using the men's room. I did so tonight at Bouchon and got complimented ("Damn, you have beautiful legs!") on the way out.
Excuse me, at Bistro Bobette. Change is tough.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Absinthe is for Birthdays
I got invited to not one, but two birthday dinner celebrations tonight. I ended up going to not two, but one celebration and enjoying the hell out of it.
Since it was to be a surprise, we were told to report to Julep by 7:15, with the birthday girl to arrive at 7:30. The party was being held at Julep's bar, with master mixologist Bobby providing our every need.
What turned out to be great entertainment was when a customer would come in and approach the bar to order a drink and be informed that the bar was a private party only tonight. People don't like being told they can't hang out at the bar, I noticed.
The birthday girl and her party-planning beau arrived and when she entered the room, she immediately saw me at the center of the bar.
The funny part was that my presence raised no suspicion in her mind. Oh, Karen's here, the boyfriend must have invited her to join us, she later told me she assumed.
It took her a minute to look around and spot all the other people whom she had not expected to see and at that point her face took on a look of complete surprise.
She muttered something to her man (which, considering he had told us all that she might kill him for doing this, we presumed to be his estimated time of death) and then the party began.
For our eating pleasure, there was fried calamari and remoulade, lamb chop lollipops, shrimp and grits and pasta Bolognese. Everyone stood around awkwardly, eager to dive in but not willing to be the first.
With no such compunction, I got things rolling by helping myself to a couple of lamb chops as well as everything else.
I took my plate to a seat at the bar between the handsome baker (who thanked me for referring to him that way in an earlier blog post) and the reserved couple who had hired a babysitter for a rare night out.
Not wanting to appear like the biggest eater in the room, I waited until they went back for a second plate (small plates, that is) to refill mine.
However, I did not wait for them to go back a third time before doing my own plate Part Trois. The lamb chops were out of this world and I sucked many a bone (okay, five) in my enjoyment of them.
The party guests included as many non-American born people as native born, making for multiple accents, perspectives and life experiences.
When my host offered me a taste of his cocktail, I took a sip and then offered it to another guest, a charming man with a smile that could win awards. Handing it to him, I jokingly asked if he was worried about cooties since he would be the third person to put his mouth on it.
"I'm from a third world country," he said. "I'm immune to cooties." Handsome and clever; too bad he was married.
His wife, who was originally from Ohio, and I had a most interesting discussion about how when you move to the south, if you're smart, it also requires learning about the south. Or it does if you want to better understand your new home.
Much the way I go to lectures and make field trips to historic sites, she and her husband make a point to get out and about in the Commonwealth, taking driving tours to battlefields and visiting historic locations, to better understand its history and legacy. I think that makes them good come-heres.
The birthday cake was courtesy of the handsome baker's shop, India Pastry House. This was my third time having baked goodies from his place and it's hard to even describe how wonderfully different they are than typical American baked goods.
Tonight's butterscotch cake had the lightest crumb with a delicate and not overly sweet frosting that was so light and exquisitely flavored that, upon finishing mine, I asked for a second slice.
One guest even had a third. The birthday girl had a slice, then had a plate of pasta and then another slice of cake. Clearly this cake was not easy to walk away from.
Bobby was an integral part of the party, telling stories and ribbing guests ("Way to bring down a party," he told me sarcastically after I shared a death story).
He told his roommate that he was going to give her his cats for Christmas. Apparently she already does a fair amount of their upkeep, so she asked, "How will that change anything?"
"I won't have to love them anymore," Bobby quipped. "Come to think of it, that happened a long time ago." Cat lovers at the party were not amused. I was.
My host insisted I tell the group the gall bladder story, here, which I hadn't realized was a favorite of his. Its charm seems to be in hearing about someone so oblivious so late in life.
And speaking of oblivious, absinthe seems to be on everyone's lips lately. I heard a great absinthe story at lunch Wednesday and it came up last night with my new friend at Secco. Tonight, several people were drinking absinthe cocktails (69%!), so I got to taste a few.
Mixed properly and exactly, as Bobby's drinks were, the seductive taste of absinthe conjured up stories of absinthe bars in Paris, hallucinogenic nights lost to it and the risks of overdoing it.
I shared the story I'd heard the other day, which ends with an absinthe-drunk woman bleeding, laughing and needing four stitches.
It wasn't that I didn't want to make it to the second party. I was just having too much fun to notice that it was time to go.
Since it was to be a surprise, we were told to report to Julep by 7:15, with the birthday girl to arrive at 7:30. The party was being held at Julep's bar, with master mixologist Bobby providing our every need.
What turned out to be great entertainment was when a customer would come in and approach the bar to order a drink and be informed that the bar was a private party only tonight. People don't like being told they can't hang out at the bar, I noticed.
The birthday girl and her party-planning beau arrived and when she entered the room, she immediately saw me at the center of the bar.
The funny part was that my presence raised no suspicion in her mind. Oh, Karen's here, the boyfriend must have invited her to join us, she later told me she assumed.
It took her a minute to look around and spot all the other people whom she had not expected to see and at that point her face took on a look of complete surprise.
She muttered something to her man (which, considering he had told us all that she might kill him for doing this, we presumed to be his estimated time of death) and then the party began.
For our eating pleasure, there was fried calamari and remoulade, lamb chop lollipops, shrimp and grits and pasta Bolognese. Everyone stood around awkwardly, eager to dive in but not willing to be the first.
With no such compunction, I got things rolling by helping myself to a couple of lamb chops as well as everything else.
I took my plate to a seat at the bar between the handsome baker (who thanked me for referring to him that way in an earlier blog post) and the reserved couple who had hired a babysitter for a rare night out.
Not wanting to appear like the biggest eater in the room, I waited until they went back for a second plate (small plates, that is) to refill mine.
However, I did not wait for them to go back a third time before doing my own plate Part Trois. The lamb chops were out of this world and I sucked many a bone (okay, five) in my enjoyment of them.
The party guests included as many non-American born people as native born, making for multiple accents, perspectives and life experiences.
When my host offered me a taste of his cocktail, I took a sip and then offered it to another guest, a charming man with a smile that could win awards. Handing it to him, I jokingly asked if he was worried about cooties since he would be the third person to put his mouth on it.
"I'm from a third world country," he said. "I'm immune to cooties." Handsome and clever; too bad he was married.
His wife, who was originally from Ohio, and I had a most interesting discussion about how when you move to the south, if you're smart, it also requires learning about the south. Or it does if you want to better understand your new home.
Much the way I go to lectures and make field trips to historic sites, she and her husband make a point to get out and about in the Commonwealth, taking driving tours to battlefields and visiting historic locations, to better understand its history and legacy. I think that makes them good come-heres.
The birthday cake was courtesy of the handsome baker's shop, India Pastry House. This was my third time having baked goodies from his place and it's hard to even describe how wonderfully different they are than typical American baked goods.
Tonight's butterscotch cake had the lightest crumb with a delicate and not overly sweet frosting that was so light and exquisitely flavored that, upon finishing mine, I asked for a second slice.
One guest even had a third. The birthday girl had a slice, then had a plate of pasta and then another slice of cake. Clearly this cake was not easy to walk away from.
Bobby was an integral part of the party, telling stories and ribbing guests ("Way to bring down a party," he told me sarcastically after I shared a death story).
He told his roommate that he was going to give her his cats for Christmas. Apparently she already does a fair amount of their upkeep, so she asked, "How will that change anything?"
"I won't have to love them anymore," Bobby quipped. "Come to think of it, that happened a long time ago." Cat lovers at the party were not amused. I was.
My host insisted I tell the group the gall bladder story, here, which I hadn't realized was a favorite of his. Its charm seems to be in hearing about someone so oblivious so late in life.
And speaking of oblivious, absinthe seems to be on everyone's lips lately. I heard a great absinthe story at lunch Wednesday and it came up last night with my new friend at Secco. Tonight, several people were drinking absinthe cocktails (69%!), so I got to taste a few.
Mixed properly and exactly, as Bobby's drinks were, the seductive taste of absinthe conjured up stories of absinthe bars in Paris, hallucinogenic nights lost to it and the risks of overdoing it.
I shared the story I'd heard the other day, which ends with an absinthe-drunk woman bleeding, laughing and needing four stitches.
It wasn't that I didn't want to make it to the second party. I was just having too much fun to notice that it was time to go.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
From the Fan to the Bottom to the Slip Version 2.0
What if there was a party and nobody but women came? What if nobody but women were invited? That would be a friend's annual Thesmophoria extravaganza, celebrating the ancient Greek festival for women only (men were supposed to be working, although frequently they came to ogle).
I'm always flattered to be asked since she gathers such an interesting group together for the evening. Julia from River City Cellars brings three great wines (I was unashamedly back to her favorite breakfast bubbles, the Tete a Claques I'd been drinking just two nights before) and all the best cheeses and the women bring the rest of the food (which always means an obscene amount of desserts).
The first thing I overheard when I walked in late to the already in-progress party was, " So do you take Nyquil?" It doesn't have the same ring as other self-medicating questions I have heard at parties.
But that was just one of many conversations I joined and then exited as I made my way through the house to meet and greet all these women.
I finally had to say my goodbyes since I'd promised to pick up a friend for an evening of light. We parked in the Bottom and began at Julep, which is always fun when Bobby's mixing.
I knew he'd been busy lately making new concoctions and listening to David Bowie, and was curious about the results. If Bowie's not old-school inspirational, I don't know who is (actually I do: Bryan Ferry).
It wasn't long before he got out his torch and presented each of us with a big roasted coconut marshmallow he'd made. I'm a coconut fan anyway, but Bobby had used coconut water instead of plain water in his recipe.
The result was scrumptious, the most sublime over-sized marshmallow I've ever put into my mouth. He created it to sit atop the Jack Skellington, but I had it as a side for my (surprise!) Corozon tequila.
Friend enjoyed a couple of cocktails (including two off Bobby's list) before we decided that it was time to join the throngs and start exploring InLight. The first piece that really grabbed me was the covered wagon with its projections of new frontier travel. Sitting in the middle of Cary Street, it was like a ghost from another era.
Sacer-totem, made of plasric nativity scene figures stacked up totem pole-like brought a smile to many viewers' faces. The Virgin Mary perched on top of assorted Wise Men made for a particularly arresting lighted visual.
All of Cary Street was transformed simply by having the street lights off. It gave the area a much different vibe (which I liked) and allowed people to drop into the shadows when they wanted to. Kind of cool.
At Bouchon, we were greeted by a madhouse. The last time I saw the place that crazy was the Bastille Day party. But the kissing bartender and chef promised us a table or bar stools and we only had to stand to sip our drinks for a bit.
The bar menu of which I'm so fond had some new listings for the evening, so we tried the onion tart, the pork and beans (so popular it had been changed from a full serving to a half) and the mushroom soup.
Friend had been unsure what to expect out of the standard-sounding pork and beans, so the sausage and white bean combo was a pleasant surprise to him. I knew Francis would do it up right, so I wasn't the least bit surprised.
The guy on the other side of me joined in our conversation about Caddyshack and music after a while and I didn't hold it against him that he liked Vampire Weekend, although I did share my opinion of the copycat little prepsters (even so, it couldn't have been too off-putting because when he got up to leave later, apropos of nothing, he said, "Come on, leave with me").
It was while he was sampling around the bar offerings (Port, pear-infused brandy, red wine) that bartender Olivier asked me if I liked apple pie and set a glass down in front of me. Very apple-like and I didn't even bother to ask what it might be. Next time.
The conversation was varied and, at times downright revealing, and before I knew it we were nearing the bewitching hour when InLight would go dark. Before that happened, Olivier grabbed me and led me downstairs and out the back way to see all the installations on the block behind Bouchon. Chef Francis joined me for the art.
There were two pop-up galleries back there, so a lot to see. Probably my favorite was Unwilling Nervous Courage, consisting of both a male nude and a reclining female nude, both magnificently carved in wood with video projections across them. We were both fascinated by the implications.
Another piece that fed the viewer's ego used a camera in one little room to project our image onto another wall. "If we stand here, the camera records whatever we do." Risky business for some.
Francis and I were both impressed by Horizon in the Fold; the columns of light behind the curtain gave a blowing, billowing effect that mirrored a balmy day with the window open, except with light as the moving force. For me, it was like seeing a sunset through the curtain of a beach cottage window, all gentle movement and subtle colors.
By the time I'd finished seeing everything I could, artists and friends had began pulling up extension cords and untaping power strips, so I headed back upstairs. We enjoyed more conversation as the bar finally began to thin out and eventually close down.
Walking back to the Bottom to retrieve my car, a passing girl said to me, "I love your purple tights!" And they don't compare to the new burgundy lace ones. Still, there is nothing quite like a random compliment at 1:45 a.m.
Actually, there's nothing like random compliment anytime. It won't give me a big head, I promise.
I'm always flattered to be asked since she gathers such an interesting group together for the evening. Julia from River City Cellars brings three great wines (I was unashamedly back to her favorite breakfast bubbles, the Tete a Claques I'd been drinking just two nights before) and all the best cheeses and the women bring the rest of the food (which always means an obscene amount of desserts).
The first thing I overheard when I walked in late to the already in-progress party was, " So do you take Nyquil?" It doesn't have the same ring as other self-medicating questions I have heard at parties.
But that was just one of many conversations I joined and then exited as I made my way through the house to meet and greet all these women.
I finally had to say my goodbyes since I'd promised to pick up a friend for an evening of light. We parked in the Bottom and began at Julep, which is always fun when Bobby's mixing.
I knew he'd been busy lately making new concoctions and listening to David Bowie, and was curious about the results. If Bowie's not old-school inspirational, I don't know who is (actually I do: Bryan Ferry).
It wasn't long before he got out his torch and presented each of us with a big roasted coconut marshmallow he'd made. I'm a coconut fan anyway, but Bobby had used coconut water instead of plain water in his recipe.
The result was scrumptious, the most sublime over-sized marshmallow I've ever put into my mouth. He created it to sit atop the Jack Skellington, but I had it as a side for my (surprise!) Corozon tequila.
Friend enjoyed a couple of cocktails (including two off Bobby's list) before we decided that it was time to join the throngs and start exploring InLight. The first piece that really grabbed me was the covered wagon with its projections of new frontier travel. Sitting in the middle of Cary Street, it was like a ghost from another era.
Sacer-totem, made of plasric nativity scene figures stacked up totem pole-like brought a smile to many viewers' faces. The Virgin Mary perched on top of assorted Wise Men made for a particularly arresting lighted visual.
All of Cary Street was transformed simply by having the street lights off. It gave the area a much different vibe (which I liked) and allowed people to drop into the shadows when they wanted to. Kind of cool.
At Bouchon, we were greeted by a madhouse. The last time I saw the place that crazy was the Bastille Day party. But the kissing bartender and chef promised us a table or bar stools and we only had to stand to sip our drinks for a bit.
The bar menu of which I'm so fond had some new listings for the evening, so we tried the onion tart, the pork and beans (so popular it had been changed from a full serving to a half) and the mushroom soup.
Friend had been unsure what to expect out of the standard-sounding pork and beans, so the sausage and white bean combo was a pleasant surprise to him. I knew Francis would do it up right, so I wasn't the least bit surprised.
The guy on the other side of me joined in our conversation about Caddyshack and music after a while and I didn't hold it against him that he liked Vampire Weekend, although I did share my opinion of the copycat little prepsters (even so, it couldn't have been too off-putting because when he got up to leave later, apropos of nothing, he said, "Come on, leave with me").
It was while he was sampling around the bar offerings (Port, pear-infused brandy, red wine) that bartender Olivier asked me if I liked apple pie and set a glass down in front of me. Very apple-like and I didn't even bother to ask what it might be. Next time.
The conversation was varied and, at times downright revealing, and before I knew it we were nearing the bewitching hour when InLight would go dark. Before that happened, Olivier grabbed me and led me downstairs and out the back way to see all the installations on the block behind Bouchon. Chef Francis joined me for the art.
There were two pop-up galleries back there, so a lot to see. Probably my favorite was Unwilling Nervous Courage, consisting of both a male nude and a reclining female nude, both magnificently carved in wood with video projections across them. We were both fascinated by the implications.
Another piece that fed the viewer's ego used a camera in one little room to project our image onto another wall. "If we stand here, the camera records whatever we do." Risky business for some.
Francis and I were both impressed by Horizon in the Fold; the columns of light behind the curtain gave a blowing, billowing effect that mirrored a balmy day with the window open, except with light as the moving force. For me, it was like seeing a sunset through the curtain of a beach cottage window, all gentle movement and subtle colors.
By the time I'd finished seeing everything I could, artists and friends had began pulling up extension cords and untaping power strips, so I headed back upstairs. We enjoyed more conversation as the bar finally began to thin out and eventually close down.
Walking back to the Bottom to retrieve my car, a passing girl said to me, "I love your purple tights!" And they don't compare to the new burgundy lace ones. Still, there is nothing quite like a random compliment at 1:45 a.m.
Actually, there's nothing like random compliment anytime. It won't give me a big head, I promise.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Extending My Southern Hospitality
In the interest of being a good representative of my adopted city, I played tour guide tonight to an out-of-town visitor.
At issue was how much I could show a non-local on a dark, rainy night, hardly prime sightseeing time. Luckily I didn't have to work at it too hard because he'd already gotten a few recommendations from a local bartender about must-sees. I just had to fill in the cracks.
With that in mind, I figured the least I could do was start with our most scenic boulevard, Monument Avenue and try to wow him that way. He was impressed, more with the houses than the lesson in Civil War history, but that may have been owing to my less-than-detailed history lesson.
The first place he'd been told to experience was Mekong, no doubt due to his home-brewing habits. Or maybe just his love of good beer. An was behind the bar, so they discussed what he likes and An made his recommendations. Fortunately for a non-beer drinker like me, they had one decent tequila.
A beer and wine geek friend was also in attendance, which worked out well because I was able to provide the visitor with a kindred soul with whom to discuss such things. The funny part was when my friend suggested Capital Ale House at Innsbrook to the visitor as the place to go for the largest beer offerings.
Obviously the visitor didn't know me well enough to realize that I was already at the outer limits of the city as far as I'm concerned, making my friend laugh at even the thought that I might venture further west. Not happening.
But I'd already promised that I'd take him to Commercial Taphouse, which delivered on several levels. First and most importantly, they had cask ale, a fact which apparently couldn't delight a home brewer (or true beer geek) more.
He happily ordered some and I told him of my recent curiosity about experiencing it, here, and what guy can resist giving a girl a first experience? So I had my first cask ale and I'd have to say it was way more interesting than any beers I've tasted in the past. I should have known I could trust an art-lover for beer advice,
We were several hours in to our evening at this point and both hungry, so we decided to eat and here's the funny part. The visitor looked at the menu, looked at me and asked, "Do you eat ribs?" It was to laugh. Of course I eat ribs, but according to him, "Most girls don't." How's that for a blanket generalization?
So we got a half rack and the Ploughman's platter (which inexplicably now comes with leaves of romaine lettuce in addition to toast, which the visitor used to make ploughman wraps, giving him points for creativity, at least in my book). "Eat this," he directed so I did.
Earlier in the car we had furthered our music talk and one band he had specifically mentioned was the English post-punk band Killing Joke, with whom I was not familiar. In a truly odd coincidence, while in Commercial, they played a Killing Joke song off their 1980 debut album.
He was thrilled and I got a frame of reference for his description. Now what were the chances of such a thing happening?
Our final stop was my choice and what I had planned to do before getting a call from the help-a-visitor foundation. Julep was hosting a benefit for Tricycle Gardens and I wanted to do my part to support community gardening.
We arrived around 10:30 for the 8:30 event and it was packed with other do-gooders (okay, drinkers). I ran into a girlfriend I hadn't seen in a year and we caught up; she's still not dating, either.
Probably not your typical list of must-sees, but he sure seemed to enjoy them all. Or maybe it was the sparkling local company.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
At issue was how much I could show a non-local on a dark, rainy night, hardly prime sightseeing time. Luckily I didn't have to work at it too hard because he'd already gotten a few recommendations from a local bartender about must-sees. I just had to fill in the cracks.
With that in mind, I figured the least I could do was start with our most scenic boulevard, Monument Avenue and try to wow him that way. He was impressed, more with the houses than the lesson in Civil War history, but that may have been owing to my less-than-detailed history lesson.
The first place he'd been told to experience was Mekong, no doubt due to his home-brewing habits. Or maybe just his love of good beer. An was behind the bar, so they discussed what he likes and An made his recommendations. Fortunately for a non-beer drinker like me, they had one decent tequila.
A beer and wine geek friend was also in attendance, which worked out well because I was able to provide the visitor with a kindred soul with whom to discuss such things. The funny part was when my friend suggested Capital Ale House at Innsbrook to the visitor as the place to go for the largest beer offerings.
Obviously the visitor didn't know me well enough to realize that I was already at the outer limits of the city as far as I'm concerned, making my friend laugh at even the thought that I might venture further west. Not happening.
But I'd already promised that I'd take him to Commercial Taphouse, which delivered on several levels. First and most importantly, they had cask ale, a fact which apparently couldn't delight a home brewer (or true beer geek) more.
He happily ordered some and I told him of my recent curiosity about experiencing it, here, and what guy can resist giving a girl a first experience? So I had my first cask ale and I'd have to say it was way more interesting than any beers I've tasted in the past. I should have known I could trust an art-lover for beer advice,
We were several hours in to our evening at this point and both hungry, so we decided to eat and here's the funny part. The visitor looked at the menu, looked at me and asked, "Do you eat ribs?" It was to laugh. Of course I eat ribs, but according to him, "Most girls don't." How's that for a blanket generalization?
So we got a half rack and the Ploughman's platter (which inexplicably now comes with leaves of romaine lettuce in addition to toast, which the visitor used to make ploughman wraps, giving him points for creativity, at least in my book). "Eat this," he directed so I did.
Earlier in the car we had furthered our music talk and one band he had specifically mentioned was the English post-punk band Killing Joke, with whom I was not familiar. In a truly odd coincidence, while in Commercial, they played a Killing Joke song off their 1980 debut album.
He was thrilled and I got a frame of reference for his description. Now what were the chances of such a thing happening?
Our final stop was my choice and what I had planned to do before getting a call from the help-a-visitor foundation. Julep was hosting a benefit for Tricycle Gardens and I wanted to do my part to support community gardening.
We arrived around 10:30 for the 8:30 event and it was packed with other do-gooders (okay, drinkers). I ran into a girlfriend I hadn't seen in a year and we caught up; she's still not dating, either.
Probably not your typical list of must-sees, but he sure seemed to enjoy them all. Or maybe it was the sparkling local company.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Virgos Do It with Verve
When I left the house tonight, the Goodyear blimp was flying directly over J-Ward. I mean it was making a beeline between Henry and Monroe Streets headed north and not very high in the sky, either. I stood in the middle of the street to admire something so ridiculous. And so my evening began.
I was going to the Bottom for a party and even that got off to a good start with a compliment from a cutter. Walking down 18th Street, a guy in a barber shop smiled at me through the window and I smiled back as I passed.
Moments later, I heard from behind, "Miss, you look amazing tonight," and turned to see one of the barbers standing in the door of the shop in his white coat, pointing his scissors at me. Such is the power of not wearing black I'm finding.
One of my favorite Virgo men was celebrating his 40th birthday tonight with a big party at Julep. And if you know anything about Virgo men (and I know plenty) it won't be any surprise that the food and drink were impeccably planned and the mix of people exceptional. He even adjusted the light periodically to ensure the proper ambiance.
Coordinating with master mixologust Bobby, the birthday boy had designed a menu of unique mixed drinks to get the party rolling. Being a non-cocktail drinker, I started with Vouvray, and later segued to good tequila.
Meanwhile, a surprising number of people ordered Mint Juleps either because they were at Julep for the first time or because they hadn't had one in ages. I felt a little sorry for Bobby; that's a labor-intensive drink.
The food was impressive; there were fried green tomato beignets, samosas, mini-crab cakes, pork tenderloin, cornbread, a variety of cheese and fruit and every one's newest obsession, sweet potato salad (so creamy! so orange!).
The crowd was diverse (although mainly couples) and represented the various aspects of our host's life: work, grad school, tennis and random (the category I fall in to). Everyone wanted to know how the two of us had met and no one was surprised that it was over food (pork belly) at a trendy restaurant (Balliceaux) and that I'd done the initiating (he and his girlfriend are introverts and I'm, well, not).
I enjoyed mixing with so many new people because it resulted in far-ranging conversations (the unfriendliness of Hartford, Connecticut, decadent shakes and architecture). I asked a guy what his connection to our host was and he jokingly responded, "I used to be his lover." I trumped him with more humor, "Wait, me, too." We made the birthday boy's night when we shared this dishonest exchange with him.
A male guest told our host that I was a fun person, a female guest asked how I stay in shape given all my food writing and a charming and handsome baker invited me to his shop to treat me to a sweet. Now that's a party I was reluctant to leave.
But leave I had to because of the impending Broken Social Scene show at the National . The last time they played RVA at Toad's Place, they'd come on at 10:00 and played till 1:15 and I'd loved every minute of it. I was looking forward to more of the same.
Tonight's show was just as mesmerizing and only a little shorter. The collective has such energy and their songs are so well done. The subject of it being September 11th came up and lead singer Kevin Drew called for a collective hug of "Americans and Canadians" and threw himself onto the crowd; Brendan Canning followed suit and they were passed around for a bit to the delight of the adoring audience.
Stripping down to his muscle shirt, Drew explained that "This is what I wore to the rocks and the bridge when we went swimming this afternoon. I couldn't bear to take it off." An audience member handed him fluorescent sunglasses which he wore for most of the rest of the show.
Because the collective is large and has so much talent, something interesting was always happening. A guitarist would begin removing his guitar mid-song and another musician would rush over to pick up that guitar and finish his part so that the first guitarist could now play trumpet. Lisa Lobsinger provided the necessary female voice to complement so much male talent.
At one point Drew commented that it was "a Saturday night dance in Richmond" and that was absolutely true. The crowd was in motion pretty much non-stop, even during the occasional ballad. During the protracted encore, the crowd was all but bouncing off the walls.
Blimps, barbers, birthday boys and a show my favorite bartender at the National (and a musician to boot) described as "probably the best I've ever seen here." And he's seen a lot of them.
But it was Kevin Drew who nailed it with, "Saturday night's alright for fun." Isn't it, though?
I was going to the Bottom for a party and even that got off to a good start with a compliment from a cutter. Walking down 18th Street, a guy in a barber shop smiled at me through the window and I smiled back as I passed.
Moments later, I heard from behind, "Miss, you look amazing tonight," and turned to see one of the barbers standing in the door of the shop in his white coat, pointing his scissors at me. Such is the power of not wearing black I'm finding.
One of my favorite Virgo men was celebrating his 40th birthday tonight with a big party at Julep. And if you know anything about Virgo men (and I know plenty) it won't be any surprise that the food and drink were impeccably planned and the mix of people exceptional. He even adjusted the light periodically to ensure the proper ambiance.
Coordinating with master mixologust Bobby, the birthday boy had designed a menu of unique mixed drinks to get the party rolling. Being a non-cocktail drinker, I started with Vouvray, and later segued to good tequila.
Meanwhile, a surprising number of people ordered Mint Juleps either because they were at Julep for the first time or because they hadn't had one in ages. I felt a little sorry for Bobby; that's a labor-intensive drink.
The food was impressive; there were fried green tomato beignets, samosas, mini-crab cakes, pork tenderloin, cornbread, a variety of cheese and fruit and every one's newest obsession, sweet potato salad (so creamy! so orange!).
The crowd was diverse (although mainly couples) and represented the various aspects of our host's life: work, grad school, tennis and random (the category I fall in to). Everyone wanted to know how the two of us had met and no one was surprised that it was over food (pork belly) at a trendy restaurant (Balliceaux) and that I'd done the initiating (he and his girlfriend are introverts and I'm, well, not).
I enjoyed mixing with so many new people because it resulted in far-ranging conversations (the unfriendliness of Hartford, Connecticut, decadent shakes and architecture). I asked a guy what his connection to our host was and he jokingly responded, "I used to be his lover." I trumped him with more humor, "Wait, me, too." We made the birthday boy's night when we shared this dishonest exchange with him.
A male guest told our host that I was a fun person, a female guest asked how I stay in shape given all my food writing and a charming and handsome baker invited me to his shop to treat me to a sweet. Now that's a party I was reluctant to leave.
But leave I had to because of the impending Broken Social Scene show at the National . The last time they played RVA at Toad's Place, they'd come on at 10:00 and played till 1:15 and I'd loved every minute of it. I was looking forward to more of the same.
Tonight's show was just as mesmerizing and only a little shorter. The collective has such energy and their songs are so well done. The subject of it being September 11th came up and lead singer Kevin Drew called for a collective hug of "Americans and Canadians" and threw himself onto the crowd; Brendan Canning followed suit and they were passed around for a bit to the delight of the adoring audience.
Stripping down to his muscle shirt, Drew explained that "This is what I wore to the rocks and the bridge when we went swimming this afternoon. I couldn't bear to take it off." An audience member handed him fluorescent sunglasses which he wore for most of the rest of the show.
Because the collective is large and has so much talent, something interesting was always happening. A guitarist would begin removing his guitar mid-song and another musician would rush over to pick up that guitar and finish his part so that the first guitarist could now play trumpet. Lisa Lobsinger provided the necessary female voice to complement so much male talent.
At one point Drew commented that it was "a Saturday night dance in Richmond" and that was absolutely true. The crowd was in motion pretty much non-stop, even during the occasional ballad. During the protracted encore, the crowd was all but bouncing off the walls.
Blimps, barbers, birthday boys and a show my favorite bartender at the National (and a musician to boot) described as "probably the best I've ever seen here." And he's seen a lot of them.
But it was Kevin Drew who nailed it with, "Saturday night's alright for fun." Isn't it, though?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Overheard: "I Can't. I'm Already Lit."
"I'm having a housewarming party on Sunday 3:00-3:00. You should come, I'll have some decent tequila for ya..."
That kind of invitation is impossible to resist, especially when it comes from Julep's star mixologist, Bobby. His roommate is part of the food talent at Olio, so I knew they'd have victuals and drink of the highest order. And did they ever.
When I got there, I was introduced to all kinds of new people doing everything from having political discussions to playing beer pong to debating the merits of a vintage Stallone movie (I was plenty lost on this one). As part of the tour of the house (it was, after all, a housewarming) that I was given, I was shown the extensive bar on the back porch.
Bobby made it quite clear that he would not be bartending tonight, but the bar he had assembled offered such a variety of alcohol, homemade mixers, herbs and obscure liqueurs as to make it overkill for anyone except the most ambitious party guest. I did see one amateur mixologist friend spend a good long while doing his best Bobby imitation, mixing and muddling.
And the food was just as impressive. Kielbasa, bangers and sauerkraut. Black bean cakes. The most divine mango and avocado guacamole. Blue cheese and walnut stuffed celery. Collard greens perfectly cooked and with just the right amount of fat and vinegar. Watermelon in balsamic. Burgers. Roasted corn. There may have been more, but I gave up after that much.
One of the biggest hits of the evening was the sweet potato salad, a pastel orange concoction that looked like something fruity and full of preservatives. Instead, it won over person after person who reluctantly put some on their plate saying, "I really don't like sweet potatoes." Ah, but what if you made a potato salad and used sweet rather than white or red potatoes? I watched as it made converts out of haters.
Desserts were plentiful, too. An array of cupcakes from the new Baby Cakes Bakery, assorted cakes from an Indian bakery (my favorite by far), fresh strawberries and tiny strawberry tarts in what tasted like a sugar cookie crust.
And because there's always room for Jello, there were Jello shots. As I told my host, I hadn't done Jello shots since the 90s, a fact which caused him to laugh out loud. On the other hand, no one had ever before offered me one made with tequila, much less offered me several. There were different flavors made with other things like rum and vodka, but a girl's got to stick with what she knows.
One of my absolute favorite couple dates was also invited, so I had the pleasure of their company as well as that of some favorite restaurant folks from Julep and Olio. After a discussion of the hazards of teaching public school these days (political correctness rules), we somehow degenerated into a discussion of what makes a difficult or even bad restaurant patron.
It was a timely conversation given that last night was apparently ridiculously busy due to it being UR and VCU move-in weekend. According to those who know, there were a lot of amateurs out, which meant a lot of impatient customers in completely full restaurants. With all the discussion, it soon became clear that restaurant people are so grateful for understanding customers.
When I finally decided to leave, some friends joined me in saying goodnight to our hosts. "Did you have a good time?" Bobby asked us repeatedly. Had we ever, and that was in just six hours. I can't imagine if we'd stayed the whole twelve.
That kind of invitation is impossible to resist, especially when it comes from Julep's star mixologist, Bobby. His roommate is part of the food talent at Olio, so I knew they'd have victuals and drink of the highest order. And did they ever.
When I got there, I was introduced to all kinds of new people doing everything from having political discussions to playing beer pong to debating the merits of a vintage Stallone movie (I was plenty lost on this one). As part of the tour of the house (it was, after all, a housewarming) that I was given, I was shown the extensive bar on the back porch.
Bobby made it quite clear that he would not be bartending tonight, but the bar he had assembled offered such a variety of alcohol, homemade mixers, herbs and obscure liqueurs as to make it overkill for anyone except the most ambitious party guest. I did see one amateur mixologist friend spend a good long while doing his best Bobby imitation, mixing and muddling.
And the food was just as impressive. Kielbasa, bangers and sauerkraut. Black bean cakes. The most divine mango and avocado guacamole. Blue cheese and walnut stuffed celery. Collard greens perfectly cooked and with just the right amount of fat and vinegar. Watermelon in balsamic. Burgers. Roasted corn. There may have been more, but I gave up after that much.
One of the biggest hits of the evening was the sweet potato salad, a pastel orange concoction that looked like something fruity and full of preservatives. Instead, it won over person after person who reluctantly put some on their plate saying, "I really don't like sweet potatoes." Ah, but what if you made a potato salad and used sweet rather than white or red potatoes? I watched as it made converts out of haters.
Desserts were plentiful, too. An array of cupcakes from the new Baby Cakes Bakery, assorted cakes from an Indian bakery (my favorite by far), fresh strawberries and tiny strawberry tarts in what tasted like a sugar cookie crust.
And because there's always room for Jello, there were Jello shots. As I told my host, I hadn't done Jello shots since the 90s, a fact which caused him to laugh out loud. On the other hand, no one had ever before offered me one made with tequila, much less offered me several. There were different flavors made with other things like rum and vodka, but a girl's got to stick with what she knows.
One of my absolute favorite couple dates was also invited, so I had the pleasure of their company as well as that of some favorite restaurant folks from Julep and Olio. After a discussion of the hazards of teaching public school these days (political correctness rules), we somehow degenerated into a discussion of what makes a difficult or even bad restaurant patron.
It was a timely conversation given that last night was apparently ridiculously busy due to it being UR and VCU move-in weekend. According to those who know, there were a lot of amateurs out, which meant a lot of impatient customers in completely full restaurants. With all the discussion, it soon became clear that restaurant people are so grateful for understanding customers.
When I finally decided to leave, some friends joined me in saying goodnight to our hosts. "Did you have a good time?" Bobby asked us repeatedly. Had we ever, and that was in just six hours. I can't imagine if we'd stayed the whole twelve.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Solo at Mint
I am a mixologist's nightmare. If I'm going to drink anything besides wine, it's going to be good tequila on ice, so no mixing skills are required. Still, when I want to talk mixology and sip a good tequila, I usually go to down to Mint to visit with Bobby. He's guaranteed good company and I always enjoy our food/restaurant/spirits discussions (the things I learned about gin tonight!).
Given today's heat, my lethargy prevented me from heading down to the Bottom until 9ish. It was still 98 degrees but there was a nearly full moon rising in the sky as I drove east, so there was hope for a drop in the temperature sometime soon. At least that's what I told myself.
Bobby greeted me enthusiastically and the few bar patrons were waiting for a table, so they soon left, leaving me alone at the bar. I ordered Cazadores Reposado, a tequila Bobby had introduced me to, on ice and opened the menu. The heat had sapped my appetite but tequila on an empty stomach is just foolish and I knew better.
Just as I was scanning the menu, a server came up and informed Bobby that the kitchen had 86'd several items, including two of the appetizers I'd been considering. No problem because the Hudson Valley fois gras with pineapple preserved lemon jam, rice paper crisps and balsamic beef jus reduction was still available. Bobby said he thought it was Julep's finest appetizer, validating my choice.
Bobby was right. The seared fois gras was silky and rich and the chunks of pineapple in the jam a sweet balance to the savory. I could taste what an indulgence it was and I enjoyed it more so for it. I followed that with the southern spicy lobster spring rolls with chipotle/lime aioli. Nothing could have been better than the fois gras, but the lobster rolls had great flavor and a killer sauce, so I was more than satisfied.
I love it when Julep morphs into Mint. The white tablecloths are stripped away, the shades are lowered and the music goes from low-volume big band and swing to higher volume alternative. Now that's the way to create a drinking ambiance with attitude.
Meanwhile Bobby wanted me to taste his espresso martini, enhanced with citrus to cut the coffee flavor; even a non-coffee drinker like me had to admit the beauty of the flavor combination. I moved back to Cazadores afterwards and we jumped into conversation about his favorite local bars, the difference between mixology and just combining flavors to make a cocktail and my continuing love life issues. He even gave me a heads up on some new bars on the horizon.
Bobby is starting to do Wednesdays at Fanhouse, taking his cocktail magic on the road, if you will. His mad skills are sure to elevate the atmosphere and crowd at this new gathering place on the Robinson corridor. I've been in there for drinks before, but never with a master behind the bar. All of a sudden, Wednesdays in the Fan are looking up.
I may not need a mixologist's master blending skills, but a good conversationalist is invaluable for a solo diner/drinker. Besides, if he doesn't have to make drinks for me, he has more time to talk.
Let's get my priorities straight here.
Given today's heat, my lethargy prevented me from heading down to the Bottom until 9ish. It was still 98 degrees but there was a nearly full moon rising in the sky as I drove east, so there was hope for a drop in the temperature sometime soon. At least that's what I told myself.
Bobby greeted me enthusiastically and the few bar patrons were waiting for a table, so they soon left, leaving me alone at the bar. I ordered Cazadores Reposado, a tequila Bobby had introduced me to, on ice and opened the menu. The heat had sapped my appetite but tequila on an empty stomach is just foolish and I knew better.
Just as I was scanning the menu, a server came up and informed Bobby that the kitchen had 86'd several items, including two of the appetizers I'd been considering. No problem because the Hudson Valley fois gras with pineapple preserved lemon jam, rice paper crisps and balsamic beef jus reduction was still available. Bobby said he thought it was Julep's finest appetizer, validating my choice.
Bobby was right. The seared fois gras was silky and rich and the chunks of pineapple in the jam a sweet balance to the savory. I could taste what an indulgence it was and I enjoyed it more so for it. I followed that with the southern spicy lobster spring rolls with chipotle/lime aioli. Nothing could have been better than the fois gras, but the lobster rolls had great flavor and a killer sauce, so I was more than satisfied.
I love it when Julep morphs into Mint. The white tablecloths are stripped away, the shades are lowered and the music goes from low-volume big band and swing to higher volume alternative. Now that's the way to create a drinking ambiance with attitude.
Meanwhile Bobby wanted me to taste his espresso martini, enhanced with citrus to cut the coffee flavor; even a non-coffee drinker like me had to admit the beauty of the flavor combination. I moved back to Cazadores afterwards and we jumped into conversation about his favorite local bars, the difference between mixology and just combining flavors to make a cocktail and my continuing love life issues. He even gave me a heads up on some new bars on the horizon.
Bobby is starting to do Wednesdays at Fanhouse, taking his cocktail magic on the road, if you will. His mad skills are sure to elevate the atmosphere and crowd at this new gathering place on the Robinson corridor. I've been in there for drinks before, but never with a master behind the bar. All of a sudden, Wednesdays in the Fan are looking up.
I may not need a mixologist's master blending skills, but a good conversationalist is invaluable for a solo diner/drinker. Besides, if he doesn't have to make drinks for me, he has more time to talk.
Let's get my priorities straight here.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
One Broad's Appetite
I'm going to be honest. I made two laps at Broad Appetit over the course of an hour and a half and did more talking than eating. I then spent the next three hours in the air-conditioned comfort of Bistro 27, eating, drinking and listening to Gypsy Roots play. I make no apologies for any of my behavior.
June's weather is too reliably hot for a large-scale cooking event featuring 100+ vendors with grills and warming tables. Three blocks is not enough space to try to cram 25,000 people, half of whom are pushing sunburnt children in strollers. Serving hot soup or heavy dishes = a really poor marketing plan. Those are my personal takeaways from today's event, and I've been to them all.
As for what I spent my $3 chunks of change on, we've already established in these very blog pages that I am a sucker for pork belly. Which means I couldn't resist the fried pork belly with Asian slaw from Six Burner. Fatty and tangy, yea man, and served by all those familiar faces from the front and back of the house whom I know so well.
If any one dish spoke to me today it was UR's crab, lobster and corn gazpacho. Cold. light and fresh-tasting, this is what I'm talking about wanting to eat on a hot day.
Likewise, I couldn't pass up the watermelon "soda" made by Julep's master mixologist Bobby, (who lured me in to tell me about the tequila tasting he knew I wouldn't want to miss). Unlike some drink offerings I heard about today, his was chilled and served in a large cup without an overabundance of ice and it was about the most refreshing taste you can imagine.
It was a lot like having a cup of the juices that run down your arm when you're eating a hunk of watermelon at a picnic. And while not a fermented beverage, it definitely fell right in line with my recent trend of drinking pink.
The award for brilliance goes to Bacchus for their homemade dark chocolate and strawberry ice creams, a real mood lightener in today's tropic-like heat. I can attest to their strawberry being heavenly with loads of strawberry chunks throughout.
It was easy to pass up on Acacia's softshell sliders because of my recent bagged lunch from there of that very dish except in full-size format, raved about here. Three dollars for a couple of bites of that stellar taste combination can't compare to an entire baguette of softshells and slaw with a side and dessert for $10, so I didn't bother with that line today.
My friend and I were the first bar customers to escape the heat at 27 and passed several very enjoyable hours after all that hot hullabaloo, drinking Gavi di Gavi and Vino Verde. By 3:00 we were feeling peckish (and "tipsy in the afternoon" if you want to listen to my friend's assessment) and decided to eat up. She had a Ceasar salad with salty anchovies and sauteed calamari in a tomato sauce over creamy polenta while I had a bowl of mussels in white wine cream sauce, soaked up by a whole lot of crusty bread.
Before you question why I would sit in a restaurant (and a place I frequent often) rather than availing msyelf of further sampling possibilities at the festival, allow me to remind you of the purpose of Broad Appetit. It was conecived to bring people downtown and affordably introuduce them to the wealth of independent restaurants in RVA, in hopes that they might return to the city for a full meal at a later date.
That's a lesson so firmly ingrained in me already that one could almost say I preach it in my daily blog ramblings about my endless eating experiences, almost always within the city limits.
Broad appetite? Hell, this broad already has one.
June's weather is too reliably hot for a large-scale cooking event featuring 100+ vendors with grills and warming tables. Three blocks is not enough space to try to cram 25,000 people, half of whom are pushing sunburnt children in strollers. Serving hot soup or heavy dishes = a really poor marketing plan. Those are my personal takeaways from today's event, and I've been to them all.
As for what I spent my $3 chunks of change on, we've already established in these very blog pages that I am a sucker for pork belly. Which means I couldn't resist the fried pork belly with Asian slaw from Six Burner. Fatty and tangy, yea man, and served by all those familiar faces from the front and back of the house whom I know so well.
If any one dish spoke to me today it was UR's crab, lobster and corn gazpacho. Cold. light and fresh-tasting, this is what I'm talking about wanting to eat on a hot day.
Likewise, I couldn't pass up the watermelon "soda" made by Julep's master mixologist Bobby, (who lured me in to tell me about the tequila tasting he knew I wouldn't want to miss). Unlike some drink offerings I heard about today, his was chilled and served in a large cup without an overabundance of ice and it was about the most refreshing taste you can imagine.
It was a lot like having a cup of the juices that run down your arm when you're eating a hunk of watermelon at a picnic. And while not a fermented beverage, it definitely fell right in line with my recent trend of drinking pink.
The award for brilliance goes to Bacchus for their homemade dark chocolate and strawberry ice creams, a real mood lightener in today's tropic-like heat. I can attest to their strawberry being heavenly with loads of strawberry chunks throughout.
It was easy to pass up on Acacia's softshell sliders because of my recent bagged lunch from there of that very dish except in full-size format, raved about here. Three dollars for a couple of bites of that stellar taste combination can't compare to an entire baguette of softshells and slaw with a side and dessert for $10, so I didn't bother with that line today.
My friend and I were the first bar customers to escape the heat at 27 and passed several very enjoyable hours after all that hot hullabaloo, drinking Gavi di Gavi and Vino Verde. By 3:00 we were feeling peckish (and "tipsy in the afternoon" if you want to listen to my friend's assessment) and decided to eat up. She had a Ceasar salad with salty anchovies and sauteed calamari in a tomato sauce over creamy polenta while I had a bowl of mussels in white wine cream sauce, soaked up by a whole lot of crusty bread.
Before you question why I would sit in a restaurant (and a place I frequent often) rather than availing msyelf of further sampling possibilities at the festival, allow me to remind you of the purpose of Broad Appetit. It was conecived to bring people downtown and affordably introuduce them to the wealth of independent restaurants in RVA, in hopes that they might return to the city for a full meal at a later date.
That's a lesson so firmly ingrained in me already that one could almost say I preach it in my daily blog ramblings about my endless eating experiences, almost always within the city limits.
Broad appetite? Hell, this broad already has one.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Borrowing a Husband at Julep
You know how some childless people say they love interacting with other people's kids because they know they can hand them back? Does the same basic principle hold when I share a meal with someone else's husband? I ask because I have several married friends, all in satisfying relationships, with whom I greatly enjoy hanging out, begging the question would I enjoy them any less if they were single?
Tonight's dinner companion was a perfect example: smart, funny, food savvy, observant and a great conversationalist. We met at Julep where he and the valet watched me park, critiquing all the while. I must have done alright, though, because the valet asked if I was trying to put him out of a job (hmm, possible new career path?).
We arrived sans reservation to a fully reserved restaurant (even well-heeled prom couples) and had to wait a bit for two bar stools to open up. The bartender had called in sick (too much Strawberry Hill, if you know what I'm sayin') so one of the servers was doing double duty, making what seemed to be an endless stream of mint juleps while waiting on a full bar. We assured him we were in no hurry, which he seemed to appreciate.
My friend got his usual bruised martini and I opted for the Domaine du Pagot Sauvignon Blanc, a mid-palate delight without a lot of mineral taste. Friend and I had just about finalized our food choices when we were told that the mussels and calamari had not been up to the chef's standards so were unavailable tonight. Does this really mean they forgot to order them? Inquiring minds want to know. No matter, actually; there were plenty of other good choices.
I had the mixed spring lettuces with applewood smoked bacon, Stilton bleu cheese and pecan hush puppies with lemon-balsamic vinaigrette. The salad was supposed to have cukes too, but they were out of them. Luckily for me, they were the least important ingredient in the salad. My friend started with pan-fried goat cheese fondue with sun dried apricot-black pepper emulsion and crystallized pecan over greens, counting on it not being a true fondue, which it was not.
I'd had the hush puppies before and loved their sweet savoriness, but the crystallized pecan was an unknown entity. It tasted like a pecan meringue, solid and chewy; I loved it. We thought it added a lot to the dish.
Next up he had the Hudson Valley foie gras with pineapple-preserved lemon jam, rice paper crisp, and balsamic beef jus reduction. Verdict: decadent and divine. I scored with the sweet corn griddle cakes with lobster, avocado, Parmesan crisp and lemon-basil aioli. The dish had a generous amount of lobster complemented by perfectly ripe avocado; the crisp was almost overkill.
We were observing the kitchen staff through the window as we chatted and they were a focused bunch. It was almost 9:30 before we heard any laughter or much conversation at all. My friend, who works part-time in a restaurant kitchen, commented on the absence of jocularity and interaction, saying it wouldn't appeal to him. On the other hand they had a full house, so perhaps on slower evenings they enjoy themselves a bit more. Besides, who were we to judge?
And speaking of such, I wouldn't want to judge my friends by their marital status either. I have single male friends whose company I enjoy. But let's face it, my married friends are taken for a reason: they're interesting guys. I don't begrudge the women who got to them first, but I see no reason not to enjoy their company as long as their wives have no problem with it.
You see, I'm just borrowing them for an evening and handing them back. It's not my honey-do list they'll be working on tomorrow.
Tonight's dinner companion was a perfect example: smart, funny, food savvy, observant and a great conversationalist. We met at Julep where he and the valet watched me park, critiquing all the while. I must have done alright, though, because the valet asked if I was trying to put him out of a job (hmm, possible new career path?).
We arrived sans reservation to a fully reserved restaurant (even well-heeled prom couples) and had to wait a bit for two bar stools to open up. The bartender had called in sick (too much Strawberry Hill, if you know what I'm sayin') so one of the servers was doing double duty, making what seemed to be an endless stream of mint juleps while waiting on a full bar. We assured him we were in no hurry, which he seemed to appreciate.
My friend got his usual bruised martini and I opted for the Domaine du Pagot Sauvignon Blanc, a mid-palate delight without a lot of mineral taste. Friend and I had just about finalized our food choices when we were told that the mussels and calamari had not been up to the chef's standards so were unavailable tonight. Does this really mean they forgot to order them? Inquiring minds want to know. No matter, actually; there were plenty of other good choices.
I had the mixed spring lettuces with applewood smoked bacon, Stilton bleu cheese and pecan hush puppies with lemon-balsamic vinaigrette. The salad was supposed to have cukes too, but they were out of them. Luckily for me, they were the least important ingredient in the salad. My friend started with pan-fried goat cheese fondue with sun dried apricot-black pepper emulsion and crystallized pecan over greens, counting on it not being a true fondue, which it was not.
I'd had the hush puppies before and loved their sweet savoriness, but the crystallized pecan was an unknown entity. It tasted like a pecan meringue, solid and chewy; I loved it. We thought it added a lot to the dish.
Next up he had the Hudson Valley foie gras with pineapple-preserved lemon jam, rice paper crisp, and balsamic beef jus reduction. Verdict: decadent and divine. I scored with the sweet corn griddle cakes with lobster, avocado, Parmesan crisp and lemon-basil aioli. The dish had a generous amount of lobster complemented by perfectly ripe avocado; the crisp was almost overkill.
We were observing the kitchen staff through the window as we chatted and they were a focused bunch. It was almost 9:30 before we heard any laughter or much conversation at all. My friend, who works part-time in a restaurant kitchen, commented on the absence of jocularity and interaction, saying it wouldn't appeal to him. On the other hand they had a full house, so perhaps on slower evenings they enjoy themselves a bit more. Besides, who were we to judge?
And speaking of such, I wouldn't want to judge my friends by their marital status either. I have single male friends whose company I enjoy. But let's face it, my married friends are taken for a reason: they're interesting guys. I don't begrudge the women who got to them first, but I see no reason not to enjoy their company as long as their wives have no problem with it.
You see, I'm just borrowing them for an evening and handing them back. It's not my honey-do list they'll be working on tomorrow.
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